


Reborn, On Wings Of Fire

by Ryxl



Category: Arcanum: Of Steamworks and Magick Obscura
Genre: Fluff, Gang Violence, Gen, Molochean Hand agents, Panarii prophesy, Prostitutes, Spoilers, Victorian narrative style, dwarven zombies, planning, plot deviation, thugs - Freeform, why is Virgil so adorable?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryxl/pseuds/Ryxl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whether or not you've ever played Arcanum, I suggest searching youtube for the opening cinematic before reading this, to set the mood. It's basically a less-gameplay-centric jaunt through the story using one of the premade characters: female half-orc Clarisse Vorak. I'm trying to make this as realistic as I can without beating anyone over the head with the Idiot Stick, so it won't follow the artificially imposed plot rails of the game exactly, but I've made it accurate to the game wherever I can. Travel time, for example, and characters' skills. Dialogue will be pulled straight from the game for as many events as possible; I figured out how to get into the dialogue files and had way too much fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crash Site

“It’s all…up to you…”

The gnome’s small fingers tightened around mine, pressing the ring into my hand, then relaxed in a way that was unmistakable. Before I could string my thoughts together, however, crunching footsteps emerged from the crackle of flaming debris. I slipped the ring onto my finger, turned inwards to hide the face, and grabbed a bit of something broken and sharp enough to serve as a makeshift knife. A figure was approaching through the smoke, outline blurred, but moving with speed and deliberation enough to make my hand tighten around my weapon. There had been one passenger that moved like that, as a restrained predator among the flock, and I had avoided him lest he recognize something of himself in me. As the newcomer came closer, however, I could see that it was not the half-orc. Brown robes concealed almost everything, but I was confident in assigning the figure a male gender. He knelt, one hand checking the throat of the lady not far from me, and then he turned in my direction.

He was young enough, late twenties, with sideburns that did not suit him and the beginnings of a beard on his heavy, square face. I would have counted him a predator of the streets, a hardened man, but then his eyes fell upon me. They widened, his mouth falling open, and the hand not holding his long, wooden staff flew to his chest.

“I can’t believe it! I mean you, and…and then the zeppelin, and…and the fire! And the altar says that – do you have any idea what all of this means?”

The voice was a higher timbre than I’d expected. He’d been educated; of that, I had no doubt. There was a certain naiveté about him, the way he held himself in his shock, that told me he had not been born a hard man, but rather learned it lately. The hand holding the makeshift knife did not relax, but I moved the weapon just out of his sight.

“What are you going on about?” I asked him, more sharply than a well-bred lady should, but he didn’t seem to notice or take offense.

“You speak!” He shook his head like a dog, as if shaking his voice down from the surprised squeak it had been. “I-I-I mean, of course you speak. What am I, a blathering idiot? Wait! Wh-what did you say? Maybe I should be writing all of this down…” He fumbled in the pockets of his robes, nearly dropping the staff. Finding nothing, he wrung his hands, somehow managing to become even more flustered. “I…am at a _loss_ here. I-I don’t quite know what to do! Uh…I mean…you _are_ the…the…oh, of _course_ you are, I mean…you _do_ know who you are, right?” The words spilled out in a rush. Not waiting for an answer, he hurried on. “Of course you do, wha-what sort of _brainless,_ half-baked question is that for the, the uh, the uh… wh-wha-wh-what do you call yourself?”

“Vorak.” The syllables left my mouth instantly, and once again I gave thanks for the human custom of introducing one’s self by giving the family name first, and then clarifying. “Clarisse Vorak.”

 “Please, forgive me, Miss Clarisse, I’m making a bloody mess of this whole affair.” He took a deep breath, centering himself in proper etiquette. “My name is Virgil, madam, and I’m new to the Panarii religion – er… _your_ religion – and I…oh, oh! Wait!”

Bemused, I watched as he scrambled to kneel in front of me, mouth working as he tried to remember something.

“Ah…I, uh, hereby dedicate – no, no, uh… _commit_ my life to the Living One! I, Virgil, am at your service, madam.” Virgil bowed awkwardly and waited.

Well, at least he wasn’t a threat. “Good,” I said shortly. “You can help me check for any other survivors and gather supplies.”

Virgil followed like an overgrown puppy as I stood and walked briskly to the next body, and the one after that, and the one after that. In a depressingly short time we had confirmed that we two were the only ones alive, and the grim work of gathering what goods we could find began. I gathered food first, not that there was much of it, and piled what little there was in a singed tablecloth. Virgil watched silently as I rifled the pockets of the dead, removing coins and personal effects and more than one sturdy dagger. Those, I secured to ankle and hip. If I chanced to cross paths with the loved ones of my fellow passengers, I could give them closure along with the assorted baubles, but for the rest…well, I needed the coin and assorted useful items more than they. When nothing useful remained, I dragged the bodies into a pile and covered them with anything small enough to pick up. It was no shallow grave, but it would have to do.

Although he had helped in silence, either out of respect for the dead or because he had expended his flow of words earlier, he spoke up when I began gathering some red flowers and pulling up ugly weeds to harvest their roots.

“What are you doing? We have no time to be picking flowers! I have to get you to Elder Joachim!”

I turned to glare sharply at him, my calm splintering now that survival was not a pressing need keeping my reactions in check. “Look,” I snapped, “I don’t know who exactly you think I am, but I nearly died in that crash and everything I had in the world has gone up in flames. I can’t just go haring off with you willy-nilly – I don’t know where we are, or where the nearest town is, and I don’t…” My anger dissolved under the twin burdens of my own helplessness and the wounded expression on Virgil’s face. “I was training to be a doctor,” I said, quieter, keeping the tears under iron control. “Everything I had was on the zeppelin. How is a lady to make her way in the world with nothing but the clothes on her back? I must think of my future. I can make a salve from these plants that will heal wounds. Assuming I don’t use it all keeping myself alive, I can at least sell it for a few coins.”

Virgil sighed, deflating. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think of that, and I should have. There’s a town just a day’s journey away – Shrouded Hills. My mentor, Elder Joachim, and I are staying at the inn there. Look, Miss Clarisse, you don’t…you don’t have to do this alone. You’re the Living One, and I’ve dedicated my life to you. Whatever I can do for you…I will.”

This unearned devotion was making me uncomfortable. I turned back to searching for herbs. “What exactly is this whole ‘Living One’ business? Could you explain it a bit for me?”

“Yes, yes, of course!” Enthusiastically, he said, “You see…you’re _him_. I-I mean, the, uh…the _reincarnation_ of…er, uh, what’s his name? I can never remember...and I'm always getting him mixed up with the other fellow…the…the bad one.  You, uh...well, you know how all of those old elven names sound the same...heh, heh...er...hmmm..”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow,” I said politely, hiding my smile at how flustered he’d made himself again.

“Yes. Right. Ah...just- give me a moment here.  Y-You see...the Panarii...that's the religion that was formed around the things that he said – I-I mean that _you_ said...oh, forget it.” Nearly dropping his staff again, he gestured as if wiping away his fumbling words. “Le-let's start at the beginning.  Or… _this_ beginning, since there is a lot more that came before this.” Virgil chuckled at himself. “You are the reincarnation of a powerful elf, who the Panarii worship, and whose name is, ah...”

This time, I did smile as he trailed off. “Is…?”

“Right…yes, ah, the name…oh, wait…I remember something! It is written in the scriptures: The Living One will live again on wings of fire!” His arms spread wide in his enthusiasm for the imagery, then drooped. “No, no, no, wait, I think it says… _reborn!”_ Enthusiasm undimmed, his arms spread wide again. “On wings of fire! Oh, blood and ashes!” he spat, arms dropping to his sides. “Why d’elves always have t'be s’damn _cryptic_?” He turned a pleading look on me, seemingly expecting to be chided for his irreverent complaint.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” I said gently, “but I’m not who you think I am.”

“Look, I understand this whole thing sounds ridiculous, especially with you being human, and…female besides-”

“What’s wrong with being human?” I interrupted sharply. “You’re human.”

Alarmed, he waved his hands at me, palms out as if warding off blows. “Nothing, i-it's just that the Living One is the reincarnation of a powerful elf wizard...I can't, uh, remember his name, but I'd have thought you to have been an elf. Or perhaps a half-elf...”

“Well, that proves it, then. I’m not this Living One you’re seeking.”

His eyes traveled to my ears and, self-consciously, I brushed my hair back over them.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“What do you mean?”

He grinned. “As far as I can remember, the scriptures make reference to there being something _unusual_ or…or _unexpected_ about you when you return. Forgive me, madam, for not seeing that you are a half-elf.”

Inwardly, I cursed at how my deception has neatly trapped me. “I’m telling you, Virgil, I’m _not_ this elf that you’re speaking of.”

“You’re not…actually _him_ ,” he said awkwardly, “just the…uh…spiritual embodiment of his…essence, or- or something like that.”

Dryly, I said, “You don't seem well versed in the scriptures.”

“I told you I was new at this!” Virgil wailed. “Imagine the way _I_ must feel! Here you are, the Chosen One, er, Living One, and I can't even remember who you're supposed to be.  Please...just follow me to Shrouded Hills and we'll talk to the Elder Joachim.  He's very knowledgeable about the Panarii, and will know much better what to do.”

I glanced between his puppylike expression of pleading, and the pile of roots and flowers I’d gathered on a square of singed cloth. “Alright, I suppose we’d better get started before it gets dark. You have a camp, I presume?”

“Yes,” he said eagerly. “The path out of here leading down to Shrouded Hills is to the southeast. We’ll stop by the Panarii shrine on the way out – see if it makes any of this any more clear.”

Unfortunately, we had wandered quite a ways in my herb gathering, and attempting to go straight to the wreckage – and what little supplies had been salvaged – led to nearly tripping over a young boar minding its own business. Threatened, it charged me and I yelped, fumbling for one dagger while trying to back up. Virgil came in from the side with a deep shout, fetching the beast a solid whack on the snout with his staff, only to give a yelp of his own and flail when it turned on him. That gave me time to get the dagger out, aim, and lunge.

With a horrid squeal, the boar turned its head to bite at the blade buried in the back of its neck. I let go, and Virgil and I both backed up while it spun in confused, angry circles. Then, panting, it stumbled to its knees and fell over.

“Good hit, madam,” Virgil said shakily, voice high and tight with the remains of fear.

I nodded my thanks and cautiously approached the beast; it did not respond. A toe in its ribs got no reaction, and a moment later its breathing stopped. Quickly, I reclaimed my weapon and then butchered it roughly, hardly more than slicing slabs of meat off its bones and wrapping them in its skin while Virgil averted his eyes, repulsed. I added it to my small bundle of foodstuffs once we returned the wreckage, the herbs going in the bundle of other useful items I’d scavenged. With the light starting to fade, I hefted the sum of my worldly belongings and we headed for where Virgil thought the shrine might be.

“There.”

I followed Virgil’s pointing finger to an altar of wood and carved stone. "And His spirit shall be reborn on wings of fire in hills shrouded in fog,” I read. “Do you suppose the shrine came before, or after the town was named Shrouded Hills?”

“I don’t think it matters,” he replied slowly. “The zeppelin…for it to crash here…why _did_ it crash, anyway? I-I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bring up bad memories, but…the shock of you being the Living One…I completely forgot to wonder _why_ …”

“It’s alright.” I frowned, thinking. I had been in my room, avoiding the _real_ half-elf woman on board. There had been a shudder, a sound shooting past…I’d looked out and seen… “There was another craft. Something small. I saw it fly past, then come back again. Then…it crashed, too.”

Excited again, Virgil looked around. “Over there, Miss Clarisse! There’s another column of smoke, you see?”

We hurried over to the smaller bit of wreckage, Virgil examining the very dead half-ogre pilot while I dug out my notebook – practically the only thing of mine to survive – and roughly sketched what the thing must have looked like intact. There was a small plaque reading ‘Maxim Machinery, Caladon’ and I wrote that next to the sketch.

Virgil’s voice interrupted my contemplations. “Do you see the strange amulet that he's wearing?”

When I looked up, he was pointing to a glinting bit of metal on a chain. Quickly, I added a drawing of the six-pointed star to the page.

“That symbol on its face...I don't recognize it. Do you?”

“Can’t say that I do,” I murmured, double-checking my work.

He uttered a sound of frustration. “Something isn't quite right about all of this.  I don't remember the, uh...scriptures talking about flying _ogres_ and the like.”

The signet of the gnome’s ring pressed against the flesh of my hand. “Do the scriptures speak of a dying gnome and a ring?”

“Dying gnome?” Virgil looked at me oddly. “What are you talking about?” A howl sounded in the distance, and he frowned. “Never mind, Miss Clarisse. We'd better get to Shrouded Hills and find Elder Joachim as soon as possible...those wolves sound none too friendly.”

“You’re right.” I shut the notebook with a snap and tucked it away. “We can talk later, maybe around a nice fire, and you can tell me all about the Panarii and this elf I’m supposed to be.”

We had just passed the Panarii shrine again when we came nearly face to face with another figure in a hooded robe.

“Hold there,” he demanded as we made to edge around him. “What are you doing up here?”

“Who are you to ask?” I shot back, temper fraying. “What are _you_ doing here?”

He gave me an oily smile, and I could hear the wood of Virgil’s staff creak as he gripped it tightly.

“I mean no disrespect, Miss Clarisse,” my erstwhile companion whispered to me, “but I don’t trust this bastard one bit. Bloody convenient he happened to show up here just now, don’t you think?” Suddenly, the edge slipped off of his tone. “Uh…excuse my language, madam, but I’ve, uh, dealt with buggers – er, _individuals_ like this before. Perhaps you’ll let me talk with him for a few minutes…?”

“Of course,” I murmured, taking his staff as he strode forward.

The predatory aspect had returned to his carriage, and almost belligerently he stopped just short of the newcomer. “You there! What exactly are you doing up here?” he demanded brassily.

“I'm from Shrouded Hills...a town not far from here. I saw the crash and came here as fast as I could...”

Virgil took a step closer, voice dropping to a skeptical sneer. “Oh, really? I came from Shrouded Hills myself. It’s at least a day’s journey from here. There’s no way you could have traveled here that fast,” he continued in a dangerously soft voice, nearly a hiss. “I think you’re lying, sir.”

“I...uh...I didn't come from Shrouded Hills just now.” The man took a step back. “I was camping not far from here, and saw the blaze.  Why are you questioning me?  I've done you no harm...”

“No, I don’t think you understand,” Virgil said as he closed the distance again. “ _I’m_ asking the questions here…and I don’t like your answers. I’m going to ask you one more time: _why are you here?_ ”

“I don't recommend you speak to me that way, friend,” the stranger said coldly. “I've just asked a question, and I'm expecting an answer.” His gaze darted to where I stood, holding the staff as if it could hide both me and the bundles behind me, then back to Virgil. “We can make this simple…or more difficult.”

Virgil clenched and unclenched his fists as if warming them up, and I sidled around to flank the stranger. “Oh, I think _difficult_ is the best way, sir,” he said almost cheerfully. “I find that there’s fewer _questions_ afterwards.”

That, as far as I was concerned, was my cue. The staff isn’t my weapon of choice, but it made a satisfying _thunk_ as it crashed into the back of the stranger’s head, sending him sprawling on the rocky path while Virgil yelped.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, panicked.

“I thought we were doing this the difficult way!”

Virgil grabbed his staff back and eyed the fallen man warily. “It was all bluster! I’m no bloody warrior!”

The man twitched and lunged at Virgil’s feet. He yelped again, flailing at the grasping hands with the end of the staff and backing up frantically while I freed both of my daggers and planted one booted foot firmly on the back of the still-groggy man. Virgil tried to hit him in the head, but the man grabbed the end of the staff and in his panic, Virgil let go. I thrust one dagger at him, hilt-first, and he darted forward to take it. With my now-free hand I kneeled on the man’s back, groped for hair under his hood, and pulled his head up. A flash from the other dagger, and I pressed his head back against the ground now red with blood from his slit throat. The hand not holding Virgil’s staff flailed blindly, an ugly knife falling from its weakening fingers. Virgil snatched it up, then dropped it as if it were a venomous serpent.

“Poisoned,” he said shortly as the man bled out beneath me. “This man was a hired killer. Someone doesn't want anyone walking away from this blimp crash. He must have been working with the half-ogres in the flying machines...that’s the only way he could have gotten here so fast.”

“Perhaps it has to do with the gnome,” I said absently, working at a chain around the dead man’s neck until a familiar six-pointed star amulet swung into view.

“That may very well be the case,” Virgil said grimly. “You’ll have to tell me about this gnome.”

Carefully, I stood and re-sheathed my dagger. When I held my hand out for the other one, I found Virgil holding it with much greater confidence than he’d had with the staff. “Perhaps you’d better keep that,” I said. “You seem more familiar with it than with this.”

Virgil looked at the blade in his hand, shuddered, and thrust it back to me. “No, you take it. I’ll be okay with the staff.”

“If you’re sure,” I murmured, suddenly remembering that I should be acting demure.

Dagger once again sheathed at my ankle, I hefted my bundles and followed Virgil down the mountain path. The place he’d camped wasn’t far, and it only took a few minutes to get a fire going. My stomach growled as I crudely spitted chunks of boar and set them to cook, and wordlessly, Virgil offered me half of his leathery loaf of bread. I took it with a murmur of thanks, and for a few minutes we sat chewing in silence. I told him everything the gnome had said about ‘the evil one’ and ‘the boy’, and even showed him the ring, and a few more minutes passed while he turned this new information over in his head. When the meat started smelling done enough to eat, his stomach grumbled and I offered him a slab in thanks for the bread.

“I don't know about the ring,” he said around a mouthful of hot pork, “It might be a good idea to find out who ‘the boy’ is and see if it’s his... But this business about the evil one returning...as I've said, I don't know a whole lot about the Panarii prophecies, but I think you were supposed to return and... Bloody hell!  I should know more of this...if only Elder Joachim were here...”

“Who is this Joachim you keep mentioning?” I asked between dainty bites of my own.

Virgil stared into the fire for several moments. “Joachim...well, gave me a hand when I needed it, showed me the truth of the Panarii and its beliefs. I met him in a small village, at a Panarii temple. I was...uh...a bit down on my luck. He showed me that you don't always have to take what life gives you...that there's always a better path, and that it's always your choice to travel it...I, uh, I don't want to fail him. He is a very wise man, well-versed in the ways of the Panarii, and also in the ways of the world, and will know what needs to be done.”

It would have been unforgivably rude of me to pry into another’s history, particularly when I didn’t want my own past brought to light. I changed the subject. “And the Panarii are…?”

“The Panarii are a religion, based around the belief that you will return to destroy evil, or something like that.” Virgil scowled. “No, wait, I think there's someone you're meant to fight.  You know...that other fellow. The evil one...oh, it's all so elven...wrapped up in fancy language and metaphors and all that...” He sighed.

“Who is this evil one, exactly?”

“Well, that part is a bit blurry... Oh, blast it all!” Angrily, he thrust his makeshift spit into the fire and prodded the embers. “The whole bloody thing is blurry! I don't know and that's just the way of it!” He took a deep breath, forcibly centering himself. “Forgive my temper...I'm a bit frustrated here.”

I returned his awkward smile with one of my own. “If this is confusing to you, imagine how I must feel. Who was this elf that I’m supposed to be?”

“Nasrudin,” Virgil announced suddenly. “That was his name. Let's see...he was, er, the leader of the...the...Elven Council during the Age of Legends, at least I think that's what it was called.” A more gentle smile lit his face. “He was the greatest being that ever lived, to hear Elder Joachim tell it.”

“It sounds like you aren't quite convinced,” I said gently. “What do _you_ think?”

Virgil sighed. “After seeing what I just did, I don't know what to believe anymore. I thought this was all allegorical until I saw you crawl from that flaming zeppelin wreckage unscathed.” He gestured with the now-burning stick. “A week ago, I would have laughed at all of this. But now, I just don't know... It seems the Panarii were right after all.” In silence, he watched the fire. “Listen,” he said suddenly. “I really do believe in what the Panarii have to say, and I chose this life because...well...the life I had before wasn't what you'd call a noble one...believe me, I'm no saint, friend, but please...you must trust me. I know all of this sounds ludicrous, and I would _like_ to be able to clear up your confusion, but I am new to the Panarii religion myself. If you'll just speak with the Elder Joachim, I’m sure he can answer your questions.”

“Of course I will,” I said soothingly, and he looked up at me with naked hope. “Whether or not I believe in the Panarii prophesy about the Living One, I would be lost and without hope if not for you, Virgil. Meeting your mentor and listening to what he has to say is the least I can do in return. Besides,” I added, remembering a six-pointed star on a man who knew exactly where to go, “I can’t deny that something strange is going on.”

“Thank you, Miss Clarisse,” he said gratefully. “Here, it’s been a long day for you. Why don’t you get some sleep, and I’ll keep watch. In the morning, we’ll make our way to Shrouded Hills.”

I smiled at him with equal gratitude. “Thank you, Virgil.”


	2. Shrouded Hills

“So, tell me about yourself,” Virgil said cheerfully as he led the way down the mountain path. “What does the Living One like to do in her spare time?”

“Please don’t call me that.”

The look he gave me was half hurt reproach and half insulted pride. “I’ll thank you, madam, to have more respect for my religious beliefs – even if you don’t share them.”

I sighed. “It’s not that, Virgil. I’m sorry if that’s the way it sounded. It’s just that…” I bit my lip demurely, eyes downcast, and the affront melted from his posture.

“Just what?” he asked, more kindly.

“It’s just that…someone wanted everyone on the _Zephyr_ dead badly enough to not only shoot it down, but also send a killer to the crash site and ensure there were no survivors. You calling me the Living One – even if I _am_ – is as good as announcing my status as a survivor when none were intended.”

“I-I’m sorry, Miss Clarisse,” he half-wailed, anguished. “I wasn’t thinking again.” Shame-faced, he hung his head. “I won’t call you that any more – even though you _are_ – so that I don’t get into the habit, and it doesn’t slip out in front of the wrong person.”

I wondered what had happened to uproot him from his gentle, sheltered upbringing, and found gentle pity growing in the rocky wastes of my heart. He was a kind man, that much was clear despite the hard edge he sometimes showed. Carefully, I closed the distance between us and took his fisted hand, the one not gripping his staff tightly, in mine.

“Thank you,” I said warmly.

The fist unknotted itself and he brought my hand lightly to his lips. “For you, Miss Clarisse. I beg of you, madam…if I should need correcting in the future, do not hesitate. I won’t be a very good protector if I’m accidentally putting you in danger.” Sheepishly, he smiled. “I’m afraid I have a bad habit of not thinking things through.”

“And just who is protecting who?” I teased, smiling back at him.

He laughed. “Hey, protecting you until we get you to Elder Joachim is still my job, even if I’m not the best at it. No one _told_ me I’d be escorting th- you down a mountain, or I would have studied the scriptures harder…and maybe brought some more supplies.”

“Don’t blame yourself if we find other hired killers in our path,” I said as we resumed our trek. “Dead men may tell no tales, but they speak just as loudly in other ways.”

Virgil nodded grimly. “We may have muddied the trail, but it’s still there. After all, _someone_ killed that fellow. It _might_ have been the Panarii acolyte on a pilgrimage to the shrine, but Shrouded Hills is a small town, and _someone’s_ bound toremember a young woman wandering in. We probably want to wait until it’s darker before going to the inn – the fewer people that see the direction you came from, the better.” He paused while we contemplated that, then continued in a lighter tone, “So what _does_ a young lady like yourself do for fun?”

“Read,” I replied primly. “Textbooks, mostly.”

“I said _fun_ , Miss Clarisse,” he teased.

“That’s what I meant. The…town I grew up in had precious little in the way of books. Learning about the world – about plants, and chemicals, and what can be combined to make what – it’s _fascinating_. My childhood was…shall we say, less than intellectually stimulating?”

“I’d trade you for mine,” he said fervently. “My childhood was nothing _but_ reading, it seems. History, geography, politics – all the boring stuff. I’d much rather have been gallivanting around the countryside than cooped up in a stuffy little room while the sun shone outside, taunting me.”

“Is that why you joined the Panarii?” I asked, but the closed expression on his face warned me away from the topic. “Question withdrawn,” I said hastily.

Virgil stopped in his tracks and stared at me with an unreadable expression. “Thank you, Miss Clarisse,” he said at last.

The smile I gave him was tight and humorless. “You can thank me by not asking why I left my apprenticeship to start my life anew in Tarant.”

That made him chuckle. “It seems we both have pasts we’d rather not discuss. Fair enough! If you can trust me to protect you despite my dubious history, then I can turn a blind eye to whatever may lurk in yours.”

“Deal,” I laughed.

 

* * *

 

 

Virgil’s startled yelp was my first hint that something was wrong, although the growl that followed immediately after clarified things somewhat. I rushed over to find a wolf – fortunately quite elderly, and not at all well – snapping at Virgil’s legs while doing its best to avoid the wild blows of his staff.

“I’m alright,” he protested before I could do more than reach for the longer dagger. “I’ve got this. I- yeargh! Let go! _Let go!_ ”

Despite being beaten soundly about the head and shoulders, the wolf did not let go of Virgil’s shin. I moved in with my dagger, slashing at the beast’s eyes. Quick as thought it snapped at me, grazing my wrist and fingers but not catching hold.

“Miss Clarisse!” Virgil yelled at my cry of pain, flailing again at the wolf, who caught his staff in its jaws.

This time, I hit my mark and the wolf, like the young boar on the previous day, felt its life spill out at the bite of cold steel.

“Let me see your leg,” I demanded, reaching for the makeshift pouch of herbs I’d gathered.

Stem and root were crushed together between knife-blade and a convenient rock, and with steady fingers I spread the resulting paste on the bleeding punctures revealed as Virgil pulled up the leg of his trousers. He exhaled sharply as the pain ended almost instantly, and moments later the wounds began knitting back together.

“Well,” he said gamely, “I guess I can’t argue with you taking the time to pluck flowers and weeds, now can I? Still…”

He reached for my bleeding hand, covering it in both of his, and I felt my cheeks start to warm at the heat of his half-soft, half-rough skin. Then I noticed a faint glow about them, and heard him whispering in elven, and when he released me, the wounds had healed to nothing.

“I may not be the brightest pupil,” he said with self-depreciating humor, “but I managed to learn at least one trick.”

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want a blade of some kind?” I asked gently. “If you’re serious about protecting me…”

The hard, closed look returned to his face. “I don’t want to resort to violence, but you’re right. I can’t protect you if I can barely hit an attacker. When we get to Shrouded Hills, we’ll ask around and see what there is to be had in the way of weaponry – and armor. For you as well as me,” he continued grimly. “Get some thick wool, maybe even leather, cut your hair or find a helmet, and you could pass for a man. If anyone’s looking for a woman who survived the crash…”

My mouth had dropped open at some point; I shut it. “And you wouldn’t be scandalized to see me in trousers?”

“The way you wield that knife? I’m not asking, but it’s clear that there’s more to you than just a gentlewoman.” He shook his trouser leg back down and stood gingerly. “If we can manage it, I want swords for both of us, and we’ll train with them. A staff and a dagger aren’t exactly the best weapons for warding off wolves – four-legged or otherwise.”

“I’m not asking either,” I replied, “but it’s clear that you’ve more than a touch of familiarity with the rougher side of life, and I’m glad for it.”

The hardness faded into anguish, but “Let’s get moving again,” was all he said, and I let the subject drop.

 

* * *

 

 

“Joachim’s room is at the end of the hall, on the left,” Virgil whispered to me as we approached the inn. “I’ll meet you there.”

He slipped inside, and I gave him a count of one hundred before I followed. The few coins I had fished out of my tiny stash were handed over in exchange for a room key, and I walked down the quiet hall to the last door. When I got there, I found it open and Virgil staring in silent horror at two dead men and a note on the floor. Quickly, I pulled him inside the room and shut the door.

“Good god! What's happened here?” he said in a strangled whisper. “These men...I-I've never seen them before...”

That neither of the corpses were Elder Joachim was a relief; I picked up the note and scanned it, then handed it to Virgil. While he read, I checked the bodies for what I was sure I would find.

 

_Virgil-_

_I assume you are not alone._

_As you can see, there are people_

_in Shrouded Hills looking for_

_me. Luckily for me, these_

_fellows were easily dispatched._

_Do not speak with anyone_

_about the zeppelin crash, or_

_your new companion’s involvement_

_with it. When you are able to_

_make your way to Tarant, check_

_the telegram office there. I will_

_leave a message telling you_

_where to contact me._

_Joachim_

 

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said as he finished reading, “but it seems Joachim has discovered something...these individuals seem to be a part of some larger plot. A plot against _you_ , Miss Clarisse.”

“Yes…” I held up what I’d found. “And don’t these amulets seem a bit familiar…?”

“They’re the same amulets we found on the half-ogre and that fellow by the shrine,” he said promptly. “The ones who wanted to make sure no one survived the crash. Did…they somehow know you were going to be on that blimp? The Elder Joachim seems to think that they know who you are...I-I mean, who you _really_ are...”

“Or it could be that the gnome with the ring was their target, and they’re only after me for what I might have been told before he died.”

Stubbornly, Virgil said, “Well, yes, but why would they attack Elder Joachim if they were only after the gnome? I think _they_ hold stock with Panarii prophesy, even if you don’t, and saw our coming here as a sign. You can’t deny that, prophesy or not, you are now as much a threat to them as the gnome was. You _know_ things…or at least, they _think_ you do.”

“It could be coincidence,” I protested, “but facts don’t matter to belief. They believe me a threat, and so I am.”

“Apparently, they think Elder Joachim is also a threat to them…”

He trailed off as I began searching and stripping the bodies. Their boots were better-suited to hard travel than what Virgil and I were wearing, and the rest of their clothes would at least provide Virgil a change from the robes he wore. Not wanting to alert any authorities to whatever organization they’d belonged to, I pocked the amulets as well. Virgil, meanwhile, was rummaging through the trunk at the foot of the bed. The pack he pulled out was a welcome sight, as was the heavy, jingling bag.

“If Joachim thinks we're in trouble, then we are. Let's get out of here as swiftly as possible, and get to Tarant...” He blushed. “Ah…might I share your room tonight? I don’t fancy sleeping with these chaps, and it’s far too late for anything to be done about them before morning. I’ll be fine on the floor,” he added hastily.

“I’ll feel more comfortable knowing you’re there,” I said honestly, and he blushed harder.

“Thank you, Miss Clarisse.”

Once the door of my room was locked behind us, we both relaxed a bit.

“As soon as it’s light out,” Virgil said, “I’ll report those two chaps to the authorities and see what I can find for armor and weapons. Joachim left us enough coin that I should be able to get what we need, but it’s a long walk to Tarant. I don’t want to stay here more than two days.”

“Agreed. The sooner we can vanish into the wilds, the better.”

Virgil paused in the act of shaking out a nightshirt, his robes and somewhat-stained linen shirt bundled up for a pillow, when he realized that I was staring at his naked torso. The paleness, I had expected. There were a few marks of old wounds, again, not unexpected. His chest was deeper than I’d thought it would be, however, hinting at the powerful frame he could have if he lost the softness of excess weight he now carried on his arms and in the pouch on his belly.

“I told you I’m no warrior,” he said dryly, one hand making his stomach jiggle for emphasis.

“Warriors are made here.” I touched the pale skin above his heart briefly. “Not here,” I continued, resting my hand on his soft bicep.

He looked away, uncomfortable. “As I said. I’m no warrior.”

“I think you do yourself a disservice,” I countered firmly, “but this is a battle I will not fight. You may continue to believe that I am…who you say I am, and I will continue to believe that _your_ belief makes you a warrior, else you would not seek to protect me so.”

Virgil flushed, the color going a significant way down his chest, and pulled the nightshirt on over his head. “I’ll probably be gone when you wake up,” he said briskly. “I may be out most of the day. If you feel like exploring, there’s an old Panarii temple in town...the Elder Joachim told me that it was once a very important place to the Panarii.” Resolutely, he lay down on the floor with his back to me, facing the door. “Good night, Miss Clarisse.”

I sat on the bed and blew the candle out. “Good night, Virgil.”

 

* * *

 

 

I had just finished a lovely bath when there was a quiet knock on my door and Virgil whispered, “It’s me.”

Quickly, I let him in and locked the door again.

“We’ve got a problem,” he said, wringing his hands. “I spoke with the constable – bloody useless no-good spineless slug, if you ask me…”

“What did he say about the bodies?” I asked, blood running cold at the possibilities.

“Oh, he said they’re probably drifters and he tries not to get involved.” Virgil waved one hand dismissively. “That’s not the problem. Elder Joachim left sometime in the last two days, and just after that, some bandits swept in and are holding the bridge ransom. They’re charging an obscene amount to get out of town!”

I frowned. “But we got into town just fine…”

Virgil sat on the bed, head in his hands. “We came from the west. Shrouded Hills sits in the fork between two rivers. Unless we want to hike up one of those rivers and try to find a place to ford…we’re stuck here.”

That was unwelcome news. Between my lack of proper footwear and Virgil’s lack of general fitness, it had taken us two days to limp from the crash site to town, and my meager supply of food was gone. Panic sent my mind racing.

“What about our plan? Armor, weapons?”

“What good will they do us if we can’t get out of town?” he half-wailed.

My orcish blood raced. “Can we fight the bandits?”

Virgil looked at me oddly, and I forcibly reined myself in.

“I went up to talk to them,” he said slowly. “There’s three men – a human and a pair of half-ogres, all three armed and armored. I’m not stupid enough to try to fight that.”

“Could we talk our way past, perhaps?”

Dimly, hope returned to his eyes. “The human fellow used some big words, but they weren’t proper words. Perhaps…no, it’s no use, it wouldn’t work.”

“What wouldn’t work?” I sat on the bed beside him and took one of his hands reassuringly.

“Trying to pass myself off as a higher-up member of the Thieves’ Underground,” he said hopelessly. “He already knows I’m not, or I would have said something.”

 “He hasn’t seen me,” I pointed out.

Slowly, Virgil turned to look at me. “No, Miss Clarisse. It’s too dangerous…I couldn’t ask you to…”

I cut him off sharply “You’re not asking, I’m telling. As for danger, need I remind you that we’re easy targets as long as we stay here?”

“Y-you’re right, Miss Clarisse.” He seemed shaken by my tone, but surprised into action rather than having his wits further addled. “Ah…if we’re going to do this, we’ll need to do it right. You’ll need armor and a weapon still…”

“Should I cut my hair? Do you think I could pass for male?”

“Yes, and no,” he said, distracted. “Your voice is too melodious for a man, but any woman in the Underground is bound to be more dangerous than her peers. Let me see what I can find for you…in the meantime, I’d suggest you check out and try to quietly disappear. Joachim showed me the back door to the Panarii temple when we first came here – they use the main chamber as a town hall now, but the acolyte chambers haven’t been touched. Don’t go in the front door, there’s a smaller entrance around the back. I’ll make sure that’s open before I do anything else, and meet you back there.” Suddenly, Virgil remembered that I still had my hand in his, and blushed a deep beet red. “I…ah…”

“Thank you,” I said softly, giving his hand a squeeze and then releasing it. “I don’t know what I would do without your knowledge and experience.”

“I-I’ll just get started on that, then, shall I?”

Still flushing, Virgil fled.

 

* * *

 

 

The acolyte chambers were just as deserted as Virgil promised, the wooden floor carpeted in undisturbed dust. I picked a room larger than most and set about exploring with the aid of a dusty candle I’d found in one of the smaller rooms. It didn’t take long to find an abandoned cache of supplies – robes like the ones Virgil wore, sheets for the beds, old pillows, and more candles. I also discovered the door leading to the main chamber, two sets of recent footprints venturing only a few feet in before turning back, and to the side of the door…

For a good long minute I stared at the ring of keys, half-invisible under their dusty coating, before taking them down and cleaning them off. The key to the main chamber was easy enough to identify; it moved smoothly in the lock and I turned it the other way, locking that door. The lesser acolyte rooms – hardly more than cells – all opened and locked again with the same key. The larger room I’d claimed had a key of its own, and out of the few that were left, I found the one that secured the outer door to this wing. Virgil hadn’t mentioned keys; I was sure that if he’d known about them, he would have given me the key to the door. The inevitable conclusion was that he had gained entrance some other way, which spoke quite a bit about his recent past. I left the outer door unlocked for the time being and secured the keys to my belt.

Spare sheets made adequate, if awkward, dust rags and I had just finished making my chosen room more habitable when the outer door opened and Virgil called my name softly. I peered into the hallway, and he straightened with relief.

“I'm so glad that you're safe...I mean, I never doubted that...well, it's good to see you, anyhow.” Sheepishly, he smiled and ducked into the room, his arms full of leather and metal. “I got studded leather for you, and regular old leather for me, and swords for both of us. They’re not the best, but they’ve got an edge at least. Have any trouble getting out of the inn or finding this place?”

I shook my head. “No trouble at all. I even found the keys – why don’t you go lock the outside door while I try this on?”

“There were keys? I mean…uh…in this room?” Virgil squirmed and busied himself propping two sheathed swords against the wall and separating the two sets of armor.

“Virgil…”

The tops of his ears pinked, but he made no other reaction.

“Virgil, until we find Elder Joachim, we are going to have to rely on each other for survival.” I took a deep breath. “It doesn’t matter to me where you may or may not have learned certain skills, so long as you do not hesitate to use them for our mutual benefit. I hope you feel the same way, and will not hold back something that could help us for fear that I might question where you acquired the knowledge.”

“I picked the lock,” he said sullenly, back still turned. “Is that what you want me to say? Fine. I picked it.”

“And because of that, we are able to hide here, out of sight. Wherever you learned to pick locks, or why, is of no matter to me,” I reassured him. “What matters is that because you were able to do that, we have a safe place to stay until we can deal with the ruffians at the bridge.”

Virgil sighed. “I’m sorry, Miss Clarisse. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just…” His hands tightened on the leather armor he was holding. “I don’t _like_ using those kinds of skills because…well…because I don’t like who I was when I learned them. But you’re right, we don’t have a choice.”

A thought occurred to me. “By chance is there a bow for sale in town? As you said, it’s a long walk to Tarant. I would be able to augment our supplies much better if I were able to _shoot_ wild animals instead of stabbing them.”

Surprised, Virgil turned to look at me, his expression still somewhat hard and wary. After a minute, he nodded. “Let’s get you settled with this armor first, and take care of the bridge situation. We may need to do some…unsavory … jobs to gather enough coin for it, and we’ll want to make sure we can get out of town in a hurry if we need to.”

I nodded. “Put your armor on, so that I can see how the buckles work?”

“O-of course.”

And just like that, the tension was broken. After some scrabbling and a few explanations, Virgil left the room while I changed into some of the clothes I’d taken from the assassins in the inn, and struggled with my own armor. The freedom of trousers made me feel more like Vorak than Clarisse, and it took a few minutes of carefully marshaling my thoughts before I felt confident calling Virgil back in.

“I…uh…wow.” He flushed, alternating between averting his eyes and feasting upon the sight of me. “I-It, uh, looks good on you. M-Madam.”

“Does it really?” I spun a turn, as though testing the flow of a new dress. Black leather breeches hugged my legs, and the studded black leather jacket held my bosom quite securely.

“I-I…ah…yes,” he stammered. “You look quite…um…dangerous.”

To judge from where his eyes were, ‘dangerous’ wasn’t precisely the word he wanted. I elected to test for myself how threatening I could be, and a breath later Virgil paled as I grabbed a fistful of his light-brown hair and pulled his head to the side so he could feel the cool prick of my dagger against his throat. Surprisingly, he did not babble apologies or plead for his life. Instead, he went stock still and nearly held his breath. Whatever his past contained, it apparently had given him familiarity with being in mortal danger. I sheathed the dagger and released his hair.

“Forgive me,” I said as demurely as I could with my blood singing in my veins. “I wanted to be sure I could truly pull this off.”

“Yes,” he gasped, breath coming in great gulps now that the danger had passed. “Yes, you absolutely can. However…your hair…”

Sadly, I regarded my nearly waist-length black locks. “Is there a mirror I can use?”

“Just my shaving glass,” he apologized. “I’ll, ah, go get it. My pack is in another room.”

I tossed him the key ring. “Lock the outside door while you’re out there?”

“O-Of course.”

Once Virgil had made his retreat, I grabbed a handful of hair and used the smaller dagger to shear it off close to my scalp. I’d gotten both sides of my head done by the time he returned, my ears feeling quite exposed, and instead of trying to get the back of my head I just handed him the knife. All too soon I felt a draft on the back of my neck, and the shaving glass showed me a sharp-cheeked woman with eyebrows that arched in a slightly exotic way, pointed ears standing proudly out from a nearly-shaved scalp, with only a handful of finger-length locks adorning my forehead to hint at my femininity. I did look quite dangerous if I did say so myself.

“Let’s do this,” I said briskly as I re-sheathed the dagger and ran my fingers through what remained of my hair, disturbed by how comfortable I was with it – or without it, as the case may be. “The sooner we get it over with, the less chance that they realize this armor came from town.”

Swords strapped to our sides, door locked behind us, we set off for the river. Virgil coached me on the way – things I should say, things I should avoid saying, how I should act – and stepped out of sight behind a tree as the bridge came into view, leaving me to stride brazenly up to the pimple-faced young man and his two brutish companions.

“Hmmm?” Bored, he didn’t even glance at me as I strode up. “What do you want?”

“Excuse me,” I said crisply. “And who are you, _sir?_ ”

“Who am I? WHO AM I?” His eyes bugged out in disbelief, spittle flying as he ranted. “I am Lukan! Lukan the Witless! Where I roam, the masses quabble in pertubisiveness and trepidunction! You dare pretend not to recognize me?”

“Oh, yes! Now I see...please forgive the disrespect, Lukan...” I bowed to cover my grin. Big words that weren’t proper words, indeed. “Witless. Quite apropos, I'd have to say...”

Lukan puffed out his thin chest at the perceived compliment. “Yes don't you think? My two vehementuous companions gave it to me. Witless, you see! Without humor! Without laughs! My irascibanality is unmatched!”

I made a noncommittal sound. “Where _did_ you pick up these fellows?”

“At university, where I became disenchortled with the drudgery of the structured, academedial life,” he proclaimed grandly. “Of course, these gentlemen were cooks at the cafeteria...but we all shared a common hate for authority and a honest day's wage...”

“University. Ah. I should have guessed.” My heart went out to whatever teachers had had to put up – however briefly – with Lukan the Witless.

“Yes, but my mind outgrew their subterraneous teachings! I bent not to the will of tyrantulocity! And so Lukan the Witless, thief extraordinelle, was born! The Scourge of Shrouded Hills and beyond!”

“I see. And the bridge?”

“Ah yes, the bridge...that's a different matter.” He smiled in a sickly way, as if he were trying to smirk but hadn’t got the hang of it yet. “You see, my friends and I have found it advanatarious to require of travelers a small toll for the use of our bridge...you can be assured the funds are benefiscal to our little group here.”

Casually, I pretended to inspect my nails. “Hmmm. I may be able to persuade you otherwise.”

“Really?” Luka sneered while the half-ores chuckled darkly. “What could you possibly tell me that would change my mind about taking your money?”

I smiled, showing off teeth too pointy to be human, but he wasn’t even looking. “I'm a thief as well.”

“Is that a fact? You don't seem much of a thief to me.” He yawned in a show of feigned boredom. “I'd peg you for a tourist, or aristocracy. Nothing like the degenerals I usually keep company with...perhaps you'd better just cough up the toll.”

My fingers itched to press a dagger to his throat, but the half-ogres put a damper on things. “This is my disguise,” I said patiently. “I’m posing as an outlander.”

The silence stretched as his underworked mind struggled to form a thought. Finally, he said, “I suppose it _is_ possible...your dress seems fairly non-descrepit. Hmmm. If you are a thief, what are you doing _here_?”

“The word gets around,” I told him haughtily. “You know how it is...”

“Oh! So you've heard about us through the Thieves Underground! Fantabulous!” He beamed, and I fully expected him to clap his hands with glee. “I knew it was only a matter of time before we were noticed! Which organization are you from? Tarant's? Caladon's?”

Virgil’s advice hadn’t prepared me for this. Taking my courage in both hands, I feigned superiority once again and faked it. “Tarant's, of course. We're the best informed of them all.”

Now he _did_ clap his hands. “I knew it! I knew the Underground in Tarant would hear about us if we tantalized Shrouded Hills long enough! Things are looking up, boys! We're going to be famous!”

Sharply, I said, “Don't get ahead of yourself...your work here has been shoddy.”

“Shoddy?” His eyes bugged out again. “Shoddy! How dare you? I am Lukan the Witless! You'll pay double the toll!”

“Control yourself,” I snapped. “Your work here _hasn't_ gone unnoticed.”

Lukan’s thin chest swelled with pride again. “Of course not! I know the Underground sees all...and I made very sure not to step on anyone's toes here in the area. I know the Underground is VERY careful about keeping members out of each other's territories.”

“Actually, that's the reason I'm here.”

Amazingly, he heard the note of warning in my voice. “What? Oh no! We've gone and trespassed on someone's territory, haven't we?” His voice climbed an octave in fright. “Believe me, good woman, we'd never do such a thing intentionarily! You must believe me!”

“I’m not so sure,” I said sternly.

The young man visibly quailed. “No! Please...you must tell the Underground that we were unaware of any activity in the general vasectomy!  We would never _dream_ of moving in on someone else's business!”

“Okay, Lukan. I believe you,” I said in my least reassuring voice. “But we do have a situation here.”

“Y-yes...b-but I'm sure there's something we can do about this, right? I mean, we could leave right away! No one would be the wiser! And you could tell the Underground that Lukan is a man who respects authority...?”

“That might be a possibility,” I told him doubtfully. “You haven’t been here long, but there could be reparations…”

I hadn’t thought it possible, but Lukan’s voice climbed another octave. “Of course we'd pay whatever the Underground thought necessary! Yes! We'll just pay what you think is fair, and get out of here!”

“That does sound fair,” I conceded. “Let’s call it…two hundred gold pieces.”

“Two hundred it is!” Desperately, he rummaged in a barrel and fumbled with a clinking bag. “Here it is! Thank you so much!  And again, please send my most humiliatory apologies to the Underground in Tarant. We would hate to ruin our chances for membership in the future.”

“This money will go a long way towards clearing your name,” I soothed, accepting the bag but not looking at it.

“Thank the gods they sent someone as patient and understanding as yourself,” he simpered. “We'll cause no more troubles in Shrouded Hills! Here...take the key to the bridge gate with my thanks. And with that, we're off!” Nervously, he started trying to herd the two confused half-ogres away.

I tried not to smile as I called out, “Take your time...but I don't want to see you here if I return!”

“Understood! Farewell, good woman! You're a tribute to the vigilance and voyeurism of the Underground!”

Fearlessly, I turned and began walking towards town. After all, they hadn’t any ranged weapons. As the road curved enough to take me out of sight of the bridge, Virgil stepped out from behind a tree as if he’d been following me all along, and I handed him the bag.

“There should be at least two hundred in there,” I muttered to him.

“Excellent,” he muttered back, tucking the coin away as nonchalantly as I had. “The constable hangs out by the well in the center of town, and he’d been offering a fifty-coin reward for anyone taking out the bandits. Claiming that from him and asking about the town ought to establish in anyone’s mind that you’ve just arrived, but watch out for a gnomish gentleman standing around by the front corner of the temple – he was asking me if I’d seen the crash, if there were any survivors...” Virgil paused, then continued grimly, “…and if I’d seen a gnome in the wreckage. A relative, he claimed, but I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Alright. You go see if you can find me a bow and some arrows; I’ll talk to the constable and see what I can get in the way of supplies, and we’ll meet back up in the temple around dusk.”

“But you have the key,” he protested.

I let the silence stretch.

“Right. I-I guess I don’t _really_ need the key, do I?” He laughed somewhat nervously. “Ah…how powerful a bow?”

“Get a shortbow,” I said. “Easier to travel with.”

“You’ve got it, Miss Clarisse.”

He peeled off again as the road curved to enter town, and I strode boldly in alone.

“Excuse me,” I said to the man lounging against the well in the town’s central plaza. “Might I ask who you are, sir?”

“I'm Constable Owens...the local law and order.” He looked me up and down as if assessing my potential threat. “May I be of assistance?”

“I removed some thieves from your bridge, good sir,” I told him primly.

He looked relieved. “Nicely done! I've offered fifty gold pieces for the job...” Owens reached into a pouch at his hip and pulled out a small, heavy sack. “Here you go. Welcome to Shrouded Hills.”

I looked around, the first time I’d really gotten a chance to do so. “What can you tell me about this town?”

Owens rambled on with little encouragement from me – the silver mine that had dried up, the local businesses, his own self-importance. I thanked him politely and moved on, talking to shopkeepers and buying something here, something there, never too much all at once. The blacksmith, I steered clear of, afraid he would recognize his own wares. I spent the better part of an hour chatting with Doc Roberts, who seemed as familiar with causing injuries as he was with healing them. Once, I saw Virgil out of the corner of my eye, but I didn’t look.

When it started getting dark, I took my purchases and strode confidently off into the trees – only to circle around to the back of the Panarii temple and let myself inside. Virgil peeked around one of the doors, sword drawn, but relaxed when he saw it was me.

“Thank Nasrudin that you're...wait, you are Nas...oh blast it!” Briefly, he leaned his head against the doorframe, then straightened again and followed me down the hall. “I'm glad you finally returned. I got the shortbow and a goodly amount of arrows…and we’ve still got a nice bit of money for when we get to Tarant. I think we should set off early in the morning.”

“I agree.”

I began sorting out our various supplies, and Virgil added his hands where they were needed. It wasn’t long before we had two packs made up, and there was nothing left to do but dine on the loaf of bread I’d picked up because neither of us had really eaten all day.

“You take the bed,” Virgil said abruptly. “I’ll be fine on the floor.”

Instead of answering, I leveled a chilly look at him and strode from the room – only to return dragging a mattress from one of the smaller cells, stripped of its dusty sheet. “You’ll sleep on that,” I told him firmly, and tossed him a spare sheet and pillow.

He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. “We’d best sleep in the armor, if we can,” he said after a minute. “The sooner we get used to it, the safer we’ll be.”

I nodded and unbuckled my sword, laying it on the bed before stretching out beside it. “I’m keeping the keys when we leave,” I said as he blew out the candle. “With how much dust was on them, they won’t be missed…and I’ll feel better knowing I have _someplace_ I can call my own, even if it is an abandoned room in an abandoned temple.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Virgil said softly. “Good night, Miss Clarisse.”

Wide awake, I stared at the dark figure of my protector on his mattress, marveling that I could be so calm in the face of the world as I knew it going mad. “Good night, Virgil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Virgil's childhood has been extrapolated from the relevant newspaper article. His less-lawful knowledge has similarly been extrapolated from his confession regarding his more recent past.
> 
> The conversation with Lukan requires the Persuasion skill. It has been pulled in its entirety from the dialogue file.
> 
> No, there was no bribing Ristizze for information. Virgil knows where Tarant is, and Clarisse was trying not to draw attention to anything that could tie her to the crash.


	3. Arrival at Tarant

After nearly three weeks of hiking across the continent, even relatively flat and welcoming land with plenty of flora and fauna to augment our meager supplies, the sight of Tarant in the distance was a welcome one. Poor Virgil looked ready to weep with relief; the journey had not been easy on him. Unwilling to complain or let his weakness hold us back, he had spent much of the first week in a haze of exhaustion before letting it slip that he’d been surreptitiously healing the blisters and sores brought about by so much physical activity. After that, I’d put together a simple stimulant to keep his energy up. The softness that had once given a gentle curve to his belly was gone, and his square face had lost the heaviness that spoke of rich food and excess drink. His hair had lightened considerably due to bleaching from the sun, his skin had darkened, and he looked like quite a different person than the excitable fellow who had greeted my emergence from the fiery wreckage of the _Zephyr_. Grim-faced from long days of exertion and a lack of creature comforts, he bore his sword and leather armor with ease and carried an aura of danger about him.

I wondered if I looked the same.

My upbringing had left me no stranger to long days on the move and little to fill my belly with at the end of them, but the armor and weapons had taken a bit of time to adjust to, and I knew that my skin must bear testament to the effects of wind and sun as much as Virgil’s. I feared to look at my reflection in his shaving glass lest I see my father’s blood peering back at me, but Virgil hadn’t said a word about it despite my practically abandoning the mask of a gently-reared lady while on the road. He still turned his back while I changed, and I afforded him the same courtesy, but we had fallen into a much more casual pattern with each other, something akin to comrades rather than an unmarried man and unmarried woman sharing the same space. We laughed and joked together, neither of us mentioning our pasts. He taught me how to not look like I had no idea what I was doing with my sword; I taught him the basics of outdoor survival. The fiction that my nonhuman blood was elven served to explain my familiarity with hunting and hiking, and the frantic research I’d done a few years ago allowed me to pass cursory cultural expectations. Quiet moments in the evenings or during rests made it quite clear that he still afforded me the reverence due to Nasrudin’s reincarnation, despite our growing closeness, and I began to worry discreetly about the day when he discovered my true heritage.

We entered the city early in the morning, arms and armor hidden beneath the Panarii robes taken from the temple’s abandoned stores, with little more on our minds than a warm meal, hot bath, and soft bed. A guard standing watch at the west end of the Garrillon Bridge gave us directions to the Bridesdale Inn. With thick, coarse cloth covering our heads, few gave us a second look as we trudged through the city streets, just a couple of anonymous Panarii going about their business.

“I don't much like cities,” Virgil muttered to me as we turned up Devonshire Way towards Vermillion Road. “...always feel so crowded, hedged in…”

Wordlessly, I groped for his hand and squeezed it, letting my touch bring comfort in the absence of any appropriate words.

We reached our destination without incident, and I stifled a wince as I handed over the coins to pay for a room; it was more than I’d wanted to spend, but the image of two corpses and a note hung before my eyes. The Bridesdale Inn was not a place that would tolerate assault on its guests, and being back in a city was making both of us nervous: Virgil from whatever haunted his past, and me from the threat of being recognized, both for what I had been born as, and what I had not died from. Once the door was locked behind us, we both gave a little sigh of relief.

Virgil grinned at me as we shed our packs and robes. “It’ll feel good to get out of this armor for a change, won’t it? Er, Miss Clarisse?” He colored slightly, remembering that we were once again in civilized surroundings and the informality of the wilderness was no longer appropriate.

“A bath will feel better,” I answered with a smile. “After that, perhaps a good meal and a nap before we venture out in search of the telegraph office?”

Longingly, he glanced at the two very comfortable-looking beds in the room. “As much as I’d love to reverse the order of that, I’d feel bad sullying the bedlinens.” Resolutely, he squared his shoulders. “You first, Miss Clarisse.”

The porcelain tub filled with hot water and gently-scented suds was a luxury beyond words, and the sheer amount of grime in the water as I finally stepped out made me feel that I had shed my skin and emerged a lady once again. Wrapped in an enormous towel of soft cotton, I opened the door of the bathroom and smiled. Virgil, clean clothes gingerly held away from his body, stood ramrod straight with his back to me. As my bare feet crossed the room to the other bed, his ears pinked and he began to shuffle sideways to the bathroom, still keeping his back turned. I had no doubt that his face was beet red; my time indulging in the hot water must have afforded him ample opportunity to notice that I hadn’t unpacked a change of clothing, and guess at what would pass for my state of dress when I emerged at last. The door clicked shut; behind it, the sounds of water filling the tub drowned out my chuckle. It seemed our time alone together hadn’t quite erased those boundaries after all.

The man who emerged from the bathroom half an hour later was fit and tanned, with a roguish smile and an air of exuberance. He bowed gallantly to me; gracefully, I curtseyed back. The rich brown of his trousers and the jacket stolen from a dead assassin complemented the deep blue of my dress, and my hair had grown out enough to look exotic without being out of place in polite society. The mysterious ring was securely tucked into my bodice, where I could keep it with me and still not risk it being seen.

“Madam,” Virgil said with perfect decorum, “shall we dine?”

He offered me his arm; with matching decorum, I took it. “We shall.”

The ease with which he guided us to a quiet restaurant hinted that this was not his first time in Tarant, but I said nothing. More of our precious stash of coin went to pay for a good, hot meal, one not composed of campfire biscuits, beans, and whatever I could shoot or pluck from the ground. We both ate too much and enjoyed every bite, and retired afterwards to a small park half a block away where we could sit in comfortable silence and watch the passers-by. Enmeshed in the webs of propriety, we fell into the only pattern allowed for an unwed woman keeping company with an unmarried man, and perhaps there was more than the fulfillment of societal expectations as our fingers brushed against each other, lingering, or in the small smiles and sideways glances of admiration. The heat high on my cheekbones told me plainly that there would be spots of color there as Virgil’s eyes caressed the curve of my neck, or perhaps my misleading ear. For my part, I couldn’t help notice that he’d trimmed his beard down to the discreet fringe it had been when we’d met, just enough of a presence on his chin to keep him from looking too boyish. As the thought crossed my mind, Virgil caught me looking at him and smiled. The expression lit up his face, making him seem ten years younger and a lifetime more innocent, and the heat on my cheeks intensified. Demurely, I looked away but did not reclaim my fingers when his warm, soft-rough hand enveloped them.

It wasn’t that I’d never been admired, I thought, suddenly aware of the way heart was beating. After all, I’d emerged into the world of society a veteran at fending off unwanted advances. But half of my previous suitors hadn’t been gentlemen, and the gentlemen I’d known in the life that had gone up in flames before I set foot on the _Zephyr_ hadn’t seen me as a _lady_. I had been a woman, yes. A student, more promising than most, but not a figure to be courted outside of men barely past boyhood and looking for little more than a night’s entertainment. None of them would have been comfortable spending any amount of time in the company of a woman bearing weapons, much less ones she knew how to use easily, or wearing the type of armor that revealed nearly as much as it protected. My world had been divided into orc and human, I realized. The wild, and the civilized. But just as I could never truly separate the two halves of my parentage, I would never fully belong to either world. There could be no Clarisse without Vorak, and in that instant of blinding comprehension I understood that I had never taken an interest in any of my suitors because none of them had appealed to _both_ of my natures. Vorak would never be satisfied with the tame role of a gentleman’s pampered wife, and Clarisse would not settle for a man who was not able to hold his own in a battle of wits.

Suddenly, I was _very_ aware of Virgil’s hand surrounding mine.

It could have been something out of a children’s story: the Living One and her noble protector, the man with a tragic past who turned to the Panari just in time to save the woman destined to save the world. Grateful, she swoons into his arms and they fall in love. Perhaps she even returns the favor at some point, saving him from the clutches of the Evil One, and they live happily ever after. A perfect children’s tale, except that the Living One was a half-orc, and half-orcs didn’t get happy endings. No matter what Virgil may or may not have thought of me, when the truth of my blood came out…

Gently, I reclaimed my hand. Better for both of us to not get involved in that way. When the truth inevitably came out, there would only be pain and heartbreak for both of us. Assuming he even felt that way to begin with.

“I suppose we should go see if Joachim sent us a telegram, hmm?” Virgil’s voice was light, an unwitting underscore to my dark thoughts.

“Yes,” I said, letting him help me up, guilt weighing heavy in my chest as I laid my hand on his arm and let myself be swept into the steps of society’s dance.

 

* * *

 

 

“Good afternoon,” the clerk said pleasantly as the bell hung from the door announced our entrance. “How may we at the Tarant Telegraph Office help you today?”

I wrapped myself in Clarisse, pushing all thoughts of Vorak to the back of my mind. “Good afternoon. Do you have a telegram for Virgil?”

“Virgil, Virgil…” He shuffled through a stack of papers. “Yes, we do as a matter of fact. That will be two coins, miss.”

“Alright.” I fished the coins out and handed them over.

The clerk handed me the telegram and smiled. “Thank you, please come again.”

We bowed our way out of the shop and returned to the small park before daring to look at what we’d been given.

 

HAVE DISCOVERED SOMETHING INTERESTING

CONCERNING OUR FRIENDS WITH THE AMULETS

STOP   AM OFF TO INVESTIGATE MY THEORIES

REGARDING THEM AND AM UNABLE TO MEET WITH

YOU IN TARANT STOP   PLEASE ACCEPT MY

HUMBLEST APOLOGIES AND VISIT THE TEMPLE ON

LIONS HEAD CIRCLE IF YOU HAVE QUESTIONS STOP

TRAVEL TO STILLWATER WHEN YOU CAN STOP

WILL LEAVE WORD WITH INNKEEPER THERE AS TO

WHERE YOU CAN FIND ME STOP   JOACHIM  END

 

Virgil looked as if he’d been spurned by a lover. “The telegram sent by Elder Joachim...I-I don't know what to make of it.” He handed it back to me, both hands running nervously through his hair as he paced back and forth, clearly agitated. “It seems that he thinks it very important to find out why these men are trying to kill you...much more important than being here to _protect_ you...” The words trailed off just before they could become a growl.

Gently, I said, “I thought that was _your_ job, Virgil...”

“It _is_ , blast it!” Angrily, he turned away, fists clenched as if he were looking for something to strike. Then the anger drained out and his shoulders drooped. “I’m sorry…I-I don’t mean to get so angry,” he said miserably, eyes pleading for me to understand. “I just don't have _any_ _idea_ what's going on here. All I know is that Joachim showed me a better way, a new faith, and…now I'm involved in something even _I_ don't believe.” Almost fearfully, he asked, “What do _you_ think?”

“I think those beds at the inn looked very comfortable,” I said crisply, folding the telegram neatly and tucking it in my sleeve. “I think we should take a well-deserved rest and then figure out how far Stillwater is and if we can afford provisions for there and back, and find some work around here if we can’t.”

Relief smoothed out Virgil’s tanned face, and he rubbed his hands together briskly. “Alright. Listen, Tarant is a big city, and a man needs to watch what he does and who he talks to. Believe me, I know a lot about surviving in places like this. This, and worse,” he added darkly. “Just keep one eye always open, and one hand always on your weapon. You can't trust strangers, and sometimes not even your friends. I used to, uh...” The words tumbled to a halt and the haunted look had returned when he glanced at me. “I used to...well...that was another time.” Uncomfortable now, he avoided my eyes. “I...uh...know my way around. Just be on your guard, and I'll be watching out for you as well...”

“Thank you,” I said softly, taking one of his hands in mine. “Maybe we can look into finding P. Schuyler and Sons, and see if they can tell us the owner of the ring? We should visit the Panarii temple on Lion’s Head Circle, too, and see what the scriptures _actually_ say about this ‘evil one’, although I must admit to being more worried about the assassins finding me.”

“There is a particular wisdom to your words,” Virgil laughed. “And crying about this prophecy gibberish isn't going to keep a knife out of your ribs.  I'll shut up for a while, and we'll concentrate on that ring. If we find the owner, maybe we'll find out why those bloody assassins want it so badly.”

“Virgil…” Gently, I touched his jaw and bit my lip at how my heart leaped. “It’s your life, too. You don’t _have_ to help me with this, but you are, and the prophesy is important to you. That makes it important whether I believe in it or not. Perhaps I am who you say; until something happens to either prove or disprove it beyond the shadow of a doubt, I’m willing to accept the possibility.”

His mouth dropped open; after a minute, he shook his head and grinned. “Aren’t we quite a pair?” he laughed. “The would-be elven god and his jester.”

“Virgil…”

“I don’t know which of us is crazier,” he continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “We’ll probably both end up in the asylum.”

“Virgil!”

Smirking at how I was fighting not to smile, he went on, “Might be a tad safer, in any case. At least there, you know who the bloody madmen are.”

“Virgil,” I said patiently, both hands on my hips, “we are going _back_ to the inn, and we are getting a decent night’s sleep. I have had a very long month.”

The humor faded. “So have I,” he said solemnly. “You’re right; let’s get some rest. We can figure things out tomorrow.”

The walk back was silent, each of us distracted by our thoughts. When we returned to our room, Virgil grabbed his nightshirt and turned away from me to strip off shirt and jacket. His skin was just as pale, protected as it had been by his armor, but the softness that had rounded his arms and hung around his middle was gone. As I had back in Shrouded Hills, I watched him change, and he seemed to feel my eyes on him. Both arms stuck into the sleeves of the nightshirt he hadn’t yet pulled over his head, he turned to give me a stern look.

“I’m still no bloody warrior.”

I met his look with one of my own. “Then why are you trying so hard to keep a knife out of my ribs?”

Face red, he turned away and shrugged into the nightshirt. I dug out the loose shirt and trews that passed for my nightclothes and went into the bathroom to change, unsurprised to discover upon emerging that Virgil was already tucked into one of the beds and, to all appearances, fast asleep. I followed his lead and snuggled down between crisp sheets, the down comforter weighing gently upon me and the soft mattress cradling my body tenderly.

“Good night, Virgil,” I murmured before closing my eyes.

It may have been my imagination, but I thought I heard his breathing hitch as if at the last second, he’d thought better of speaking.

 

* * *

 

 

Neither of us awoke for dinner, exhausted as we were from our long trek. Dawn saw us both rise from our slumber, only to exchange awkward smiles and attempt to return to the dreams that had been so rudely interrupted. It was not to be, however, and only minutes later we dressed and set out in search of breakfast, and answers.

Breakfast was easy to come by. Fortified by eggs and bacon, toast and butter, tea and milk, we began our inquiries regarding the town of Stillwater. The prospect of a two-week trip made us quail, and it was with guilty relief that we tallied up our remaining coin and discovered that we were considerably short of what either of us would be comfortable arriving at Stillwater with. It was several hours yet before we would need to either remove our belongings from the inn or pay for a second night, so Virgil escorted me to the Hall of Records, pointed out the university library, and begged my leave to go see what work was to be had for an enterprising – and unscrupulous – young man.

The Hall of Records, it turned out, was down a staircase and nestled inside a quiet, dimly-lit basement. It took no effort at all to assume the role of a gently-raised young woman, and timidly I made my way to the solitary desk surrounded by towering wooden file cabinets. The young woman at the desk waved me over with a kind smile.

“Greetings, madam,” she said as I approached, her voice swallowed by the shadows. “How may I be of service to you?”

I swallowed, my eyes very wide. “I hope you can help me, madam. I’m looking for a…P. Schuyler?”

“P. Schuyler?” She pursed her lips. “The man, or the store?”

“The store,” I said, nearly whispering, my eyes focused on the countertop where my hands gripped each other tightly. “It’s about a ring…”

The clerk laid her hand comfortingly on mine. “Hoping your fellow will pop the question, eh? Well, if you’re looking for a proper ring, or just want to get him thinking about it, you can find the place down a little alley off of Devonshire Way.”

“Thank you.” I beamed at her in genuine relief. “Thank you ever so much.”

Back outside in the sunlight, I considered visiting Devonshire Way in search of this alley, but imagining Virgil frantically searching for me put an end to that thought and I turned instead to my own personal wonderland: the library. The librarian had some reservations regarding my presence, but several minutes of delighted rhapsodizing over the books under her protection convinced her that it wouldn’t hurt to let me read, so long as I didn’t try to remove any of them. I thanked her profusely, warned her about Virgil looking for me, and fairly flew to the chemistry section. Two hours flew by in a glory of academic bliss, the mysteries of the world unfolding beneath my fingertips, clean lines of formulae describing the abstract shapes of cause and effect. When the librarian’s quiet cough returned me to the physical world, it was with a nearly-audible _thump_ , the pure forms of chemical notation and relationship falling down about my ears like shards of imaginary glass.

“Might…” I ducked my head shyly, looking up with wide eyes as I reverently replaced my printed companions. “…might I come back sometime?”

The librarian’s stern visage thawed into an unaccustomed smile. “I think you enjoy the books more than anyone actually attending the university. Come back whenever you like, dearie.”

I nearly hugged her, babbling my profuse thanks.

Virgil smiled warmly at both of us as the librarian led me back to the entrance and bowed gallantly before offering me his arm. Still walking on air from having stretched my mind, I took it and he led me out into the sun.

“You really _do_ read for fun,” he teased.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You doubted me?”

“Never! …I just didn’t expect you to be practically _glowing_. I suppose asking if you enjoyed yourself would be foolish…did you have any luck with the Hall of Records?”

That brought me back to reality. “Alley off of Devonshire Way. You?”

Scowling, he made a so-so gesture with his other hand. “One that pays in coin, but we’d have to go into the sewers and find a gentleman’s wedding ring. The other is easy enough, just a rat infestation, but it only pays in whatever we find as we’re clearing out the rats. Let’s check out P. Schuyler and Sons on the way back. Who knows,” he added with forced cheer, “maybe we’ll find the owner of the ring and he’ll reward us handsomely.”

“That’s the spirit,” I smiled.

 

* * *

 

 

A young man in a suit smiled charmingly as we entered the small jewelry shop. “Hello. Welcome to P. Schuyler and Sons, dealers in the rare and beautiful. My name is James Kingsford. How might I help you?”

“Mr. Kingsford,” I purred, the hand not curled around Virgil’s arm extended for him to bow over, “I _do_ hope you can help me. I have come into possession of a ring, you see…”

He smiled a bit thinly. “I’m afraid we don’t buy here, madam.”

I forced my eyes as wide as they would go. “Oh, you misunderstand me! I’m not selling, I’m hoping to find the owner so that I might return it. Such a fine ring, surely the owner would be…grateful…”

James Kingsford relaxed slightly. “So sorry, madam, but that’s out of the question. It’s strictly against policy to divulge the identity of any of our clients.”

“Perhaps if we spoke to Mr. Schuyler…?” interjected Virgil.

“That’s quite impossible. Mr. Schuyler is unavailable at this time. The Schuylers are very busy men. Perhaps if you came back in a few weeks…”

Disappointed, fighting down Vorak’s orcish temper, I let Virgil lead me back to the inn.

“Well,” he said once we had returned to our room, “what shall we do now?”

“Kill rats,” I replied shortly, grabbing up armor and undergarments and stalking to the bathroom to change.

It was somewhat of a surprise that the afternoon had barely begun as we made our way across the city, armor and weapons hidden beneath Panarii robes, eating common fare bought from a street vendor. Once we’d reached the rougher industrial district, we rolled our robes up and carried them. The armor would be better cover here, and Vorak’s experienced scowl sent more than one questioning glance running for cover. Virgil spoke quietly to the gnome gentleman whose warehouse we were to clear of its infestation, then indicated with a jerk of his head that I should follow as he unlocked the doors.

The next hour passed in a delightfully bloody haze. Virgil sorted through crates and shelves, organizing the contents while I allowed myself to be Vorak and slaughtered rats by the dozen, tossing them in an empty crate while Virgil averted his eyes. In the gnome’s defense, these were significantly larger-than-average rats, and some of them had grown to sizes prodigious enough that in another setting, I might have butchered them for their meat. Living in the city, however, I doubted their flesh would be healthy to consume. When the buildings were clear, I sheathed my daggers and took stock of our payment, the ferocity of Vorak sinking down beneath the lucidity of Clarisse again. Sugar…brewer’s yeast…metal shavings and casings…a couple packets of “migraine cure”, which I pocketed after reading the ingredients…more sugar…well, at least we would be well-supplied in that respect for our trip to Stillwater. Sacks of fertilizer, small springs and assorted mechanical components – what kind of business had owned these warehouses, anyway? – a bundle of arrows and, incongruously enough, several large chunks of metal ore. In several trips, we sold most of our “payment” to various shopkeepers, and some to a junk dealer. The metal shavings, we threw out. Not even the junk dealer wanted them. In the end, our pay was several pounds of sugar, a quiver of arrows, two packets of migraine cure, and a few hundred coin.

“Well, I’d say that was worth it,” said Virgil cheerfully.

“Indeed. Where was that gentleman who wanted a ring?”

Virgil wrinkled his nose at me. “You really want to go down into the sewers after a wedding ring? We _have_ enough coin to finance a trip to Stillwater and back…”

“I’m feeling generous.” I grinned at him. “What would Nasrudin do?”

That stopped him in his tracks, a pensive look on his face. “What indeed. How about this, Miss Clarisse – we’ll see if we can find this chap’s ring, take a nice long bath, get some dinner, and then visit the Panarii temple. Tomorrow, we can get supplies and head off to Stillwater where _hopefully_ , we’ll find out what’s going on.”

“Sounds wonderful.” I told him. Now…where was that chap?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to her background, Clarisse grew up in an orc tribe before she moved to a larger city to begin her medical studies. When her secret came out, she was evicted, asked to leave her apprenticeship, and abandoned by her friends. Headcanon is that while not exactly a plural system, she has two functional modes - Clarisse the human, or Vorak the orc - and she identifies as one or the other depending on her mood and surroundings.
> 
> I've taken liberties with Joachim's telegram, tightening up the phrasing and making it read more like an actual telegram and less like a note trying to sound like a telegram.
> 
> The Hall of Records clerk won't actually tell you where P. Schuyler and Sons is, but average people on the street will, so I assumed the clerk would know as a person even if the records didn't record it. 
> 
> The scene at P. Schuyler and Sons marks our first departure from the plot rails. We'll get there eventually.
> 
> The contents of the warehouse, and what they sold for, are accurate to the game. Who keeps 30 arrows and 4 dwarven ore in the same warehouse as 3 bags of sugar, a compass, a revolver chamber, and two sacks of fertilizer?


	4. Stillwater Interlude

Two days ahead of schedule, we arrived in the village of Stillwater. Virgil looked around dazedly as if astounded to see buildings where we had expected only mountain roads, but the statue looming in the town square was unmistakable.

“Inn,” he said shortly. “Dinner. Bed.”

“Inn, Joachim, dinner, bath, bed,” I corrected.

Guiltily, he started. “Right.”

Although nearly two weeks of travel from Tarant to Stillwater, hard on the heels of almost three from Shrouded Hills to Tarant, had taken its toll on him, my self-appointed protector wasn’t in nearly as bad a state as he perhaps expected to be. His stamina had improved considerably, and so long as I butchered my kills where he couldn’t see what manner of creature I had slain, he cared not at all what kind of meat it was that he was eating. It might have been my imagination, but I thought he was growing fond of being out in the wilds with me – or perhaps that was me projecting my attitude onto him. After all, in the wilds there was no one but the two of us to know if we acted as an unmarried woman and unwed man shouldn’t, and being thrown together by Fate unquestionably encouraged a certain closeness.

Now that we were among other people again, however, I wrapped myself in Clarisse and let Virgil lead the way to the inn.

“Greetings, good sir,” the gnomish innkeeper said with a smile for the two Panarii entering his establishment.

“Hello, innkeeper.” Virgil smiled tiredly. “Might I impose on you for a moment?”

“Of course.”

“My name is Virgil. My companion and I will need a room for the night, dinner, a hot bath, and…I believe that Joachim has left something for me…?”

Silently, I complimented the smooth confidence with which Virgil had spoken.

The innkeeper frowned in thought. “Ah, yes, he left some things for you. Now, where did I put them? Oh, yes! I recall, now...here you are.” He took a book down off a shelf and handed it to Virgil.

The matter of our tab was settled quickly, and we changed into something less overtly hostile before sitting down to a meal unflavored by road dust. Neither of us spoke about the book as we ate, bathed, and changed into properly modest nightclothes, but then we were out of convenient distractions. Side by side we stood, Virgil holding the candle while I gingerly opened the front cover and unfolded the note that had been tucked inside.

 

      _The men trying to kill_

_you seem to be the remnants_

_of the Molochean Hand, who,_

_long ago, were assassins for_

_the Order of the Dead_

_(Derian Ka).  I found this_

_ancient but incomplete text_

_concerning their history…they_

_don’t seem to be bad fellows,_

_perhaps just a bit_

_misdirected.  Things are too_

_dangerous right now…I_

_shouldn’t have even had you_

_come here. I’ll find you._

_Joachim_

 

Without a word, Virgil took the book and skimmed its pages for a long minute while I stared at Joachim’s elegant script. When he was done, I handed him the note and perused the book’s contents. Naturally, Virgil finished reading first.

“Excuse me,” he interrupted gently. “That book is interesting, don't you think? It seems that these Molochean Hand assassins were part of some larger group called the Derian-Ka…what did he call them? The…” he glanced at the note again. “…Order of the Dead? Obviously, these fellows all had some sort of disagreement.”

“Yes,” I replied, still reading. “Joachim thinks perhaps they're not all that evil...”

He sniggered. “Not all that bad? Ha! Obviously Joachim hasn't run into them lately.” More earnestly, he continued, “That fellow Trellian did sound like an agreeable sort, though, didn't he? Anyone who chooses to side against something called _the Order of the Dead_ is alright in my book.”

“You mean _the First Assassin_ Trellian?” I asked archly, finger on the appropriate passage.

“Yes, you’ve got a point there,” Virgil laughed nervously. “I’m sure the man was no saint. Then again, who really is? We’ve all got…uh…” The lighthearted rhetorical tone he’d been pretending to faded into something more honest, more troubled. “…blood on our hands. In the end, we all just play the roles given us...sometimes they don't fit so well, but I guess we make do...”

I put the note back in the book and set it on the table. “You and I know a lot about that, it seems,” I said gently.

Too quickly, he said, “Yes...I'd _never_ had thought myself worthy of this affair, and I shouldn't be making judgments about _anyone's_ character. I think I'd best just keep my bloody mouth shut...”

I could hear tension in the pitch of his words, higher than they should have been. “Virgil…”

“Listen,” he said abruptly, eyes averted, words stumbling over each other. “There's...something that happened to me...well, b-because of me...because- I was foolish, because I was a- coward,” he spat, the hand not holding the candle fisted at his side. “Burdens like mine...they don't go away. They _always_ come back to...to...collect what is _due_ them. _Someday_ , the balance will have to be paid...”

At that moment, there was nothing in the world I wanted more than to take this gentle, wounded man into my arms and ease whatever he was suffering…and then hunt down whomever had hurt him so badly, and show them the true meaning of pain. But that was a line I had no right to step over, and to ask about his past would be violating the respect we had between us. Instead, I clasped my hands together to keep them from temptation and watched out of the corner of my eye until he’d fought his inner demons back under control.

“Well,” I said into the thick, tense silence, “what do you think we should do now?”

Virgil sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I don't _know_. I was hoping that Joachim would be here to give us a little guidance! It seems we've been running blind without the reins, doesn't it?” he continued, sounding more than a little frustrated. Then he shook his head and sighed again. “I guess we should just stick to the task at hand...”

The fire had gone out of him, I realized. His enthusiasm for the unexpected responsibility he’d found himself burdened with had faded in light of this apparent abandonment by his mentor, leaving him hollow and without hope. Virgil had no reason to feel himself worthy of the role he’d been thrust into without warning, nothing to strive for since Joachim had effectively sent us off with a metaphoric pat on the head and no further instructions.

No sooner had this realization seared its way across my mind then I found myself taking a step forward, my arms sliding around his torso, my breasts pressed against his chest and the warm scent of his skin thick in my nostrils as I laid my head on his shoulder. My breath caught in my throat as he stiffened, and for a terrible moment I was certain he would push me away for my audacity – but then his other arm settled around my waist, his hand very warm on my hip, and his chest heaved as he struggled to calm his uneven breathing. After a moment, he tentatively lowered his face to my short hair and exhaled in a long, shuddering sigh. We stood that way for what seemed like forever before his arm loosened and I stepped back, demurely smoothing my tunic and trews as if they were skirts, afraid to raise my face to his. Whether I was more anxious to hide whatever expression mine bore or fearful of what I would see on his, I couldn’t say.

“It’s been a long day, Miss Clarisse,” he said heavily. “Let’s…just get some rest and figure out our next step in the morning.”

Mutely, I nodded and practically fled to the farther bed. As I lifted the covers, Virgil blew out the candle and spared both of us the awkwardness of what we may or may not have seen.

“Good night, Virgil.” My words floated into the darkness and for several breaths I thought he would not complete our ritual. I bit my lip and waited, and then-

“Good night, Miss Clarisse,” came the quiet reply.

 

* * *

 

 

When I awoke the next morning shortly after dawn, Virgil was sitting on the side his bed staring at the floor, back to me, shoulders slumped. He did not react when I called his name and, alarmed, I circled around the beds to stand before him.

“Virgil?”

Although he had to have seen me, he did not move from his slouch, hands dangling between his knees. Again, I bit my lip.

“I can’t do this without you.” My heart, lodged as it was in my throat, made my voice very small and I stretched my hands out towards his. “Didn’t you dedicate your life to me?” I half-pled, my orcish side hating how weak I sounded and my human side crying for the emotional turmoil Virgil must be suffering.

Slowly, he raised his head to meet my eyes. He searched my face for a long minute before the despair and hopelessness on his faded, and it was like watching the sun rise in his heart. “Yes,” he said quietly, hands warm and soft-rough as they took mine. “I did.”

Virgil stood and pulled me into his arms. Heart pounding, I laid my head on his shoulder and slid my arms around his torso again while he wrapped both of his around me and I nearly wept. In that moment, the Molochean Hand and Arronax and the whole mess I’d found myself tangled up with since the crash – none of it mattered. The only thing that had any relevance to me was the man holding me as if I were entirely human, and I reveled in this taste of what I could never have.

“I think breakfast should be our first order of business,” Virgil announced suddenly, his voice strong and cheerful. It resonated in his chest, and I resisted the urge to nuzzle his throat and feel it there, too. “Breakfast, and then we’ll pay for another night, and then we can take in the sights like a pair of regular tourists. We’ll ask around and see if anyone has any business in Tarant – after all, we’ve got to go back and try to find the owner of that ring, and if we’re headed there already, maybe someone has a letter or delivery or something we can make. We’ll also need to buy supplies, and maybe…”

When he trailed off awkwardly and the skin of his neck grew red, I freed myself gently from his honey-sweet embrace and looked curiously at him. “Virgil?”

“Th-There’s a cult with a temple in this town,” he stammered. “Uh, Gushanna or something. They have…well, they have an orgy every year and call it a religious festival.”

“Maybe we should stop by and ask when the festival is,” I teased.

Virgil flushed an even deeper red, muttered something about getting dressed, snatched clothes up nearly at random, and fled to the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

 

“How do you do it, Miss Clarisse?” Virgil asked in the way back from Geshtianna’s temple. It seemed only natural that we walk hand in hand, after having been surrounded by such an atmosphere of love and joy. “Your whole life has been upended, there are assassins after you, and your only companion is a…” He looked away, flushing. “How do you keep your composure when the world has gone mad and left you adrift? How do you find the strength to keep going?”

Reassuringly, my fingers tightened around his. “I didn’t have any prospects waiting for me in Tarant,” I said quietly. “I had no idea where I would go or what I would do, but that uncertainty was better than what my life had turned into. If I have no place to call home now, what of it? Staying on the move is the best defense against being hunted. I may not have a clear idea of what I should be doing, but I have a goal to work towards. And,” I continued, turning to smile at him, “I have a brave and loyal companion by my side.”

Virgil turned a deeper red and averted his eyes again.

“All things considered,” I said lightly, “I think I’m better off as I am. My path may be twisting and fraught with danger, but at least I can recognize it. I’m not struggling to find my place in the world like the faceless masses. Whether I am or am not a figure out of prophesy, they brought this fight to my feet. I may die horribly, but…” At the last second, I kept my smile tight-lipped, my too-sharp teeth hidden from sight.

“Not if I can help it,” said Virgil fiercely.

Startled, I met his eyes and he nodded grimly.

“Warriors are made here.” He tapped his chest. “I can see _my_ path, too. If you can face the future so bravely, then I can do no less. I’m your protector, Miss Clarsse. Maybe I’m not the strongest, or the wisest, but I’ll just have to make do. For good or evil, Miss Clarisse, I’m with you. Wherever your path takes you, I’ll be there at your side. And if you die horribly…” Pain flashed deep in his eyes, making my heart lodge itself in my throat again. “…it will be because I’ve already laid down my life to protect you. Let them come; we’ll face them together. If I die…at least I’ll die doing something worthwhile.”

“If you die,” I told him through the whirl of emotions nearly blinding me, “I will be _very_ put out with you, Virgil.”

Gently, he smiled. “I’ll try not to, then.”

Hand in hand, hearts light, we set off to see what supplies we could gather for our trip back to Tarant.

 

* * *

 

 

Three days out from Stillwater, a man in leather armor similar to Virgil’s stepped out onto the road from behind a clump of trees and said, “It looks like this is the end for you...no one escapes the Molochean Hand.” He smirked evilly and drew a long dagger. “It would have been better for you if you had not survived the crash of the Zephyr.”

“Molochean Hand?” I repeated, buying time for Virgil and myself to prepare for a fight. “I am afraid I have no idea what you mean.”

“We of the Molochean Hand have sworn there will be no survivors of the blimp crash!” He sank into a fighter’s crouch, eyes on me. “For five hundred years no one has escaped who has been pledged to die by our hand; you shall not be the first!”

“What? I, uh, I'm not the person you are looking for,” I stammered, watching out of the corner of my eye as Virgil eased into a flanking position.

“Really?” The man took a step forward, peering into my face as if to gauge my reaction, and I silently breathed thanks that we were wearing our Panarii robes over our armor; the assassin had let the point of his knife droop under the assumption that I was not a threat. “I pictured you as someone who would accept her fate bravely, for some reason…not attempt to escape by lying like a coward. No matter. Prepare to die, harlot!”

The assassin raised his dagger, but Virgil was quicker.

“Don’t you call her that,” he snarled, aiming a punch at the back of the man’s head.

I retreated and shook my arms – and daggers – free as my assailant staggered forward, then turned with an angry roar, and then it was Virgil’s turn to back up, struggling to draw his sword. Clarisse retreated as my orcish blood sang, and Vorak’s grin was bloodthirsty as I lunged. One dagger skittered off the man’s armor, but the other found purchase in the slight gap between jerkin and leggings. I danced out of range as he turned to me, and Virgil swung at his shoulder. This time, however, the assassin did not turn around, having judged me the more dangerous of us. I feinted and swiped, hampered by the weight of my pack, and Virgil slashed at the man’s legs. Although it was a solid hit, the leather turned the blow. It distracted the assassin for a moment, however, and that was enough.

For a handful of minutes we stood there, struggling to calm our racing pulses as the assassin choked on the dagger in his throat and died. Virgil moved first, kneeling by the body and retrieving my dagger. He cleaned it on the assassin’s sleeve and offered it to me hilt-first, like a perfect gentleman. When I looked up from sheathing it again, he was fishing the now-familiar amulet out of the man’s armor with bloodstained fingers.

“I’m tempted to start a collection,” I said dryly.

“Collect their daggers,” countered Virgil, suiting actions to words and checking the man’s purse besides.

“You keep that one; I’ll stick with my two.” I eyed the body as Virgil nodded. “Should we do anything with that?”

“Yes,” Virgil answered viciously. “We leave it here, as a warning.”

As we continued on, Virgil looked about to say something on several occasions. Each time I glanced questioningly at him, however, he avoided my eyes and swallowed whatever words had been sitting on his tongue.

“We should have checked for his camp,” he burst out suddenly, about a mile down the road. “He must have had supplies that we could use or sell.”

I stopped. “Do you want to go back and look?”

Virgil grimaced. “No. I don’t actually fancy carrying _more_ supplies. If we get jumped again, closer to Tarant…”

Laughing, I touched his hand and was rewarded with a smile. “We’ll check the next time,” I reassured him.

He shook his head. “I don’t know how you can be so calm about the fact that there will _be_ a next time.” Then he laughed, making my heart leap. “But I don’t know how I can be so calm about stealing his supplies, so I guess we’re even. What a pair we make, eh?”

Both laughing, we continued down the road.

 

* * *

 

 

Five days from Tarant, another Molochean assassin fell for my ploy of false innocence. It took two hours to trace his steps backwards and find his camp, but the equipment and supplies we found there were well worth it. A cursory glance through the pack showed plenty of journey-bread, smoked meat, and dried fruit. Another pocket had several changes of clothing suitable for public use. We didn’t bother investigating further; I piled the contents of Virgil’s pack into my own, and he shouldered the assassin’s.

“If they keep this up,” joked Virgil, “we may never have to worry about supplies again.”

“Come on,” I urged. “We can gloat later…over a nice fire, while eating Molochean Hand travel rations.”

We made our way back to the road, and an hour later Virgil asked quietly, “That fellow outside of Stillwater…was that your first time killing a man?”

I glanced at him, but he had his eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead.

“It was my first time killing a human in armor,” I replied in an equally quiet voice. “You?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

The silence stretched, tense. Then Virgil said, “I didn’t think so, either.”

We both walked on, waiting for the other to comment or condemn, but it didn’t happen. When I reached blindly for his hand, he took mine and held it tightly.

 

* * *

 

 

When they sent a cloaked figure along with the ruffian at us, two days from Tarant, we weren’t laughing. Bold as brass, they walked into our camp as we were preparing to pack up and don armor and packs for the day’s journey. I tried bluffing, but they didn’t fall for it. The one wearing a hooded robe raised his hands, and Virgil threw himself bodily at him with a strangled scream. I couldn’t spare any time to fret as they went rolling in the dirt; I forced Clarisse away and became wholly Vorak, concentrating on taking down my prey without being hit by that darkly-glistening dagger. It was a dirty fight, but in the end I was victorious, kneeling atop the ruffian’s back while his slashed throat pumped lifeblood into the ground. My orcish blood sang loudly in my ears, and I’d nearly forgotten I was not alone until a whimper sounded from off to my right.

“I’ve been seriously hurt, madam,” Virgil whimpered, the cloaked figure twisted and bleeding not far away. “Please help me…”

In a heartbeat, Vorak had been suppressed. Clarisse once more, I scrambled for the packet of herbs I kept ready and crushed together kadura stem and ginka root. Virgil whimpered again, teeth clenched together so as to not bite his lip or scream, both hands pressed firmly on a bleeding wound a shade too high to have hit his kidney. Hastily, I ripped a sleeve from the fallen assailant’s robe and wadded it into a rough bandage. The healing salve smeared onto it, I pushed Virgil’s hands and clothes out of the way and pressed it firmly to the wound. It was many long, trembling breaths before the pain started to ease, and I pretended to not see the tears of relief that he blinked away.

“I was focused on the staff,” he panted, apologizing through what pain still lingered. “I didn’t see…he had a dagger…until it was in me…”

“Hold this,” I snapped, pushing his hands into position.

The dagger hadn’t fallen far – and, as I feared, it was poisoned. My blood turned to ice in my veins. Where was their camp? Did they have the poison on them? I scrambled to the dead mage first, searching him roughly and with little regard for the blood splattered everywhere, but he didn’t have the poison vial on him. The ruffian did, and weak-kneed with relief I crushed  more kadura stem against a rock and carefully scraped it into the bottle. Cap again tight, I shook it and waited until the color changed. Virgil had paled when I returned to his side, and not from loss of blood; his hands were clammy as I moved them off of the bandage. As quickly as I could, I pulled the bandage off of the wound and poured a few drops of antidote directly onto the wound itself before capping the precious bottle and pressing the bandage back into place. His color improved almost immediately, and the breathing which had gone unsteady strengthened and smoothed out. After a few minutes, his hands crept back into place and I let him resume holding the bandage down while I stripped the bodies of anything useful. Once that was done, I resolutely continued breaking camp; I’d done what I could, and we were vulnerable. Fretting about my protector would achieve nothing.

When there was nothing left to do, I steeled myself and turned to Virgil – only to discover him standing on his feet, fingers lightly exploring the new scar he bore.

“Virgil?” My tone was understandably hesitant – the healing salve wouldn’t have closed a wound that serious yet. To my surprise, he flushed.

“Ah…once it didn’t hurt so much, and I could think again…” He made a gesture indicating magic, and it was my turn to flush.

“I’d forgotten you could do that,” I confessed.

Virgil stared unkindly at the bodies. “They’re starting to get serious, it seems. Are we going to look for their camp?”

“Yes.” If Virgil was surprised by my vehemence, he didn’t show it. “They nearly took something very valuable from me. I’m going to take everything I can from them for it.”

Without a word, Virgil donned his armor, buckled on his sword, and strapped his pack. “I heartily concur.”

The Molochean Hand camp didn’t have much for us to take; they’d come out of Tarant, it seemed. We took what was there and didn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's face it, game mechanics were the only thing that kept me from going straight to Stillwater after getting Joachim's telegram.
> 
> Clarisse used wild 'prodigious vermin' in a stew one night; Virgil was nearly ill when he found out it wasn't rabbit. A long discussion about animal diet ensued and, as a result, neither of them are much for farm-raised pork anymore.
> 
> Yes, a simple hug is horribly improper between two adults who aren't husband and wife. Arcanum may be progressive in terms of adventurers and whorehouse clientele, but it's still pretty Victorian otherwise.
> 
> In case it wasn't clear, they each secretly love the other but think it can never be. Clarisse knows by experience how welcome half-orcs are in polite society, and Virgil's got a mountain of self-worth issues. Plus that whole Living One thing. I promise they'll get it worked out eventually (SEE: Claiming Virgil).


	5. Tarant: Into the Boil

“The Boil,” Virgil said grimly. “There’s a reason no one’s taken this job. First, they want Damian Maug’s head as proof. That by itself is practically suicide.” He stood and started pacing back and forth across the room – not the same one we’d stayed at the first time, but nearly identical despite that. “The Boil is a…a…a… _slum_ , worse than the warehouse districts. It’s filled with vicious cutthroats and thugs who’d as soon kill you and spit on your corpse as laugh as someone else murdered you, and in broad daylight at that! There’s two gangs – Maug’s and Pollock’s, and anyone in there is either with one or the other, or dead. Ten thousand coin is enough to set anyone up for life – provided they want a modest life – but like I said, the job’s been up for months with no takers. It’s not that anyone thinks they’ll get stiffed on the payment – it’s already been paid in advance, the money has been counted and magically warded – but it’s a suicide mission.”

I sat quietly, thinking. The Schuylers were still nebulously unavailable, the Molochean Hand had to know we were coming to Tarant, and I didn’t quite trust the security at the Bridesdale Inn as much as I did before we looked through the clothes those last two agents had had in their packs. To stay here – even if we could find enough in the way of odd jobs to pay the tab – was to sit exposed. My lips threatened to peel back from my too-sharp teeth; firmly, I pressed them back together. The safest place in the wilds was in the middle of a pack of predators – _if_ you were a predator. 

“With a little…cosmetic enhancement,” I said quietly, “I can pass for a half-orc. If we can join Maug’s gang, our _friends_ will have a harder time reaching us, if not finding us. And who knows…” I shrugged. “Maybe we’ll get an opportunity.”

Virgil looked at me helplessly. “I-I don’t _like_ this, Miss Clarisse.” He sighed. “But you’re right. As counter-intuitive as it sounds, the Boil may be the safest place for us to be. A-Are you sure you can pass for-”

Before he could finish the thought, I’d charged him. One forearm pressed against his throat as I knocked him into the wall, while with my other hand I drew a dagger and pressed it gently to the soft flesh just below his ribs.

“Yes,” I said mildly.

He coughed as I stepped back, face averted, cheeks red. “Ah, yes, I would have to concur. Anyway, there was one other job, but the pay is…”

Virgil’s cheeks darkened further, and I felt my eyebrows raise. “…is?”

“Th-The job is, uh, for…M-Madam Lil.” When I did not comment, he clarified, “She runs the finest…uh…establishment in Tarant. When she has jobs, the pay is usually…” Still flustered, he glanced at me and then away again. “…she waives the usual fee for…spending time with one of the girls.”

“She must be quite well-respected,” I said smoothly. “I think it would be worth it to get into her good graces. What’s the job?”

“One of the girls left behind a necklace while making a…uh…house call. The maid found it, but she’s demanding fifty coins for its return, and it’s not worth that, but it’s got sentimental value to Cassie. The girl,” he said hastily.

My eyebrows raised again. “What is the usual fee for Cassie’s time?”

“A hundred,” he muttered, looking embarrassed to have had the answer ready.

“And no one has realized that paying fifty coin for the necklace is cheaper than paying the usual fee?”

“Apparently, it’s not that easy,” Virgil said. “The maid…well, she won’t speak to strange men.”

I stood, smoothing my skirts. “Where can I find the maid?”

“The Mooreland residence. It’s not too far from here – just a bit down Devonshire.”

“Put on your good coat, Virgil,” I said with a smile. “We’re going to call on the Moorelands.”

Half an hour later, looking very proper indeed, we knocked on the door of the Mooreland residence and waited. After a minute, the knob turned and a female face peered out from a narrow crack; I could see the chain hanging above her head.

“What can I help you with, sir? Miss?”

“Greetings,” I said gently. “Who are you?”

“I’m Laura,” she replied warily. “The housekeeper.”

I pretended to look at the address. “Isn’t this the Mooreland residence?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Mooreland have gone on holiday.”

“Mmm. Can you help me with something?”

“Mebbe.” The wariness hadn’t left her face. “That depends upon the request.”

“I've come from Madam Lil's...” Laura’s expression flickered to surprise. “I hear you have done your master a service by hiding the unfortunate evidence of his indiscretion.”

A bit of the wariness faded. “Oh yeah. I found it right after that Cassie whore left...a good thing, too. Mrs. Mooreland came home and took it upon herself to ‘inspect my cleaning’ not an hour after she'd gone. She would have found it for sure!”

“Madam Lil admires the cleverness and initiative you took – not to mention the way you’ve stood up for yourself.”

“She does?” For a brief moment the girl looked uncertain, then the wariness came back. “Hold on there, missy...I know she wants it back. I hid it from Mrs. Mooreland. I kept quiet about it... I kept it safe all this time...what are you gonna give me as my reward?”

I glanced around. “Perhaps we could discuss this inside? I’d hate for prying eyes to set tongues wagging.”

“Alright,” she said reluctantly.

The door shut, then opened again. I dipped her a curtsey, Virgil bowed, and we stepped inside. He immediately wandered over to inspect a painting, hands clasped behind his back, clearly not a threat.

“You mean to say,” I picked up as soon as the door closed again, “that Mr. Mooreland hasn’t rewarded you for your quick thinking?” Faint outrage colored my voice, and it wasn’t entirely feigned.

“They don't pay nuthin'!” Laura scowled. “Work my hands to the bone for those two, you think they'd 'preciate a girl, right? Wrong! Always callin' me lazy and worthless. Good for nuthin' rich folks! If I wasn't so desperate for the money... I'd leave in an instant!”

“That’s horrible!” I gasped, and I meant it. “You poor girl. You could do so much better for yourself.”

She sniffled and looked at me, unshed tears making her eyes bright. “What do you mean?”

Gently, I touched her cheek. “You’re young and pretty…why not take advantage of your youth and beauty?”

“Take advantage.” She scowled again. “That’s why Mr. Mooreland had that Cassie whore over – I wouldn’t let him _take advantage_ with me.”

“Because he doesn’t pay you,” I said with an approving nod. “But how much did he pay for Cassie?”

“A hunnert,” Laura muttered.

“And was she that much prettier than you?”

Her mouth dropped open as the implication hit her. “You mean I could…”

“A young lady like you could easily be one of them.”

“Madam Lil's!” Laura sighed wistfully. “Those girls must be the richest folk in all the world...always dressed in the finest silk, the most beautiful gowns... and it's not like their work is _difficult_. They must lead such wonderful lives...but they’re beautiful and refined! How’m I gonna get refined?”

“You wouldn’t need to,” Virgil said quietly, back still turned. “Each of Madam Lil’s girls has a specific niche, a specialty. Something they excel at. Willow acts just like a shy, innocent virgin. Cassie…well, Cassie appeals to men who enjoy physically overpowering girls.”

“What are you saying?” asked Laura, very wary now.

“You said Mr. Mooreland had Cassie over because he couldn’t have you. I’m certain…” His ears pinked. “I’m certain that his…appreciation…of you is not unique.”

“You’re saying that rich men would pay to pretend that I’m _their_ maid, and they’re havin’ their way with me?”

Virgil coughed. “Yes.”

“I don’t believe you,” she retorted, eyes hard.

“Virgil,” I said gently, “would you turn around and come over here?”

“I-I’d prefer not to, Miss Clarisse.”

I smiled; I knew that high tone of voice. “Laura,” I whispered, leaning close so Virgil wouldn’t hear, “I think he doesn’t want to turn around so that we don’t see…”

She grinned. “Hey Virgil,” she called brassily. “You wanna _take advantage_ with me?” The sputtering, flustered reaction to that nearly had Virgil tripping over his own feet – and he wasn’t even walking. “You do! You really do! Okay,” she said to me, “I'll clean myself up a bit, then I’ll go see Madam Lil.” Smiling broadly, she tiptoed up to Virgil and kissed him on the cheek. While he turned beet red and I fought Vorak down, Laura reached under a table and pulled out a ruby necklace. “Here,” she said, handing it to me. “Take the necklace. Thank you so much!” She turned to Virgil, still grinning at his discomfort. “You might be the best thing that ever happened to me. Maybe I’ll see you again, hmmm?”

The instant Laura had the door open, Virgil was through it and outside. I shared another grin with her, curtseyed again, and followed him.

 

* * *

 

 

“Why hello there” said the older, but still beautiful woman as Virgil held the door for me. “Welcome to Madam Lil's, the finest establishment in Tarant.”

“And might you be Madam Lil?” I asked.

“Why yes,” she said, appraising me. “I am.”

“I have Cassie’s necklace.” I pulled it out and offered it to her, noting that Virgil had quietly retreated to a sort of waiting area and was trying to look as if he weren’t there.

“Oh, very good!” She beamed at me. “Cassie will be so happy to have it back. Now then, I believe you’re entitled to spend time with one of my girls…” She took me by the elbow and drew me off to a different waiting area, this one with a door-lined hallway leading off from it. “Let me tell you a bit about our four most popular…Bunny’s the first, she’s _very_ enthusiastic and open to…experimentation. Elven blood, like yourself,” she added with a glance at my ears. “Willow and Cassie are entirely human…Willow is a shy, gentle girl new to the ways of love –  you’ll need to teach her well – while Cassie has been very naughty indeed and needs to be punished however you see fit. If you are the one in need of punishment, however, there’s Alice…her orcish blood makes her a natural at domination.”

Gently, I reclaimed my arm. “Actually…this may sound unusual, but…”

Madam Lil laughed. “Not to worry! Belle is available on special request. Her wool is soft as down, and-”

“That’s not what I meant,” I interrupted, flushing. “My companion, Virgil, was instrumental in retrieving the necklace from Laura, the Moorelands’ maid. In fact, she may stop by later to see if she…measures up to your standards. I was wondering if I could…give my payment to him…?”

“Of course,” Lil said, laughing a little. “You’re welcome to wait for him, either here or by the bar. I’ll just go and let him know…”

I watched discreetly as Madam Lil sashayed over to Virgil, bent over, and murmured into his ear. He blushed, but nodded, and I busied myself looking at a graceful sculpture as he hurried past and down the hallway. Madam Lil had some…mood-setting…literature strategically placed, and I quite happily lost myself on a divan with one of the leather-bound books until a deliberate _ahem_ broke me out of the story. Virgil looked away, flushing slightly, but looking much more relaxed than he had earlier.

“Shall we depart, Miss Clarisse?” he asked somewhat awkwardly, offering me his arm.

I took it. “Yes, let’s.”

We walked in silence until we reached a small park, where we sat and pretended to watch the birds flitting around.

“Thank you for that, Miss Clarisse,” he said quietly.

“I see nothing wrong with you completing other jobs for Madam Lil in the future,” I replied delicately, and he blushed. “And if I can help, I will do so.”

“Ah…maybe we should discuss what we’re going to do in the Boil?”

I laughed and touched his hand, and he took it in his. “Alright. How does one go about joining a gang?”

“There’s a bar…it’s neutral territory. We’ll go there and talk to Maug’s recruiter. We may…ah…have to prove ourselves.”

“What will that involve?”

“P-Probably, uh, severe physical violence. They’ll w-want to make sure you can stand up to Pollock’s gang…”

“You mean,” I said matter-of-factly, “they’ll want me to kill someone.”

Virgil stammered for a few seconds before finally saying, “Yes. Uh, not that I think you’ll have any trouble with that. A-And we’ll need to have our story straight.”

“I am a half-orc named Vorak. You are my…partner. I kept a band of orcish brigands from killing you, so I own your life. Why I came to Tarant is my own business, but I’ve decided to throw in with Maug.”

“His gang is mostly orcs and half-orcs,” he interjected.

“Perfect. I’ve decided to throw in with Maug, and if he doesn’t want me, then maybe Pollock will. You, of course, follow me because I own your life. Anyone asks if I sleep with you, you tell them I’m a harsh mistress and nothing more.”

Virgil smiled weakly. “You got it, Miss Cl-Vorak.”

I forced Vorak back a bit. “When should we make our entrance?”

“Uh…” Virgil shook his head to clear it. “We’ll spend tonight at the inn, then leave before dawn and get out of the city before anyone in the Boil is awake to see us. We’ll go about an hour outside of town under Panarii robes, then put them away and wait until noon. Then we’ll come back and head into the Boil.” He glanced at me, uncomfortable. “We, uh, won’t be able to correct each other on anything. We’ll both have to be as rough as we can pretend to be, and if something comes up…roll with it.”

I had the distinct feeling my protector was omitting something fairly important, but I let it slide. I trusted him.

 

* * *

 

 

“I sure hope you know what you’re doing, M-Vorak,” muttered Virgil as we approached Caleb’s bar in the Boil.

I ignored him. My hair was newly-shorn back down to fuzz on the sides and fringe on the top, and I moved with the deadly grace of a panther in my studded leather, one hand conspicuously on the hilt of a dagger at all times. Clarisse had been banished for now; I was Vorak, and I feared nothing. When I threw open the door, I did not enter right away – rather, I stood in the doorway taking the measure of the patrons, and letting them see me. Only after a few breaths did I enter, and I went straight to the barrel-chested man at the bar who wore an apron and a permanent scowl.

“Can I help you?” asked the man who was likely Caleb Malloy.

“Probably. You Caleb?”

His eyes drifted to Virgil, who had suppressed _his_ gentler side as well, and now held himself as a predator. “I am, and this is my pub.” He leaned on the scarred wooden counter and lowered his voice. “Listen, miss, you’re new around here. A man can tell just by lookin’ who knows the Boil and who don’t. This ain’t a nice place to be visitin’, especially when you don’t know the lay ‘a the land.”

“Not a miss,” I said in a low, rough voice. “Vorak. And that’s why I’m _here_. You’ll know everything worth knowing.”

Caleb grinned and slapped his hand on the bar. “Hah! You got some sense in you, at least. You could do a lot worse than to hear what old Caleb has to say about the Boil.”

I slid a few coins across the bar’s battered surface; like magic, they vanished under Caleb’s meaty hand. “Tell me what I’ll need to know. Tell me about the gangs.”

“Pollock's a half-ogre who runs a mish-mash bunch of Hooligans here in the boil – not too organized, mind you, but vicious and cruel.” Caleb’s eyes flicked to my ears and back. “Darian Maug's Clan is mostly orcs and half-orcs. He plays it a little quieter, but you can't trust him any more than a Bangellian viper. Either way, if you get involved with one, the other gang's going to be after your hide. A man needs to be careful about who he works for in the Boil.”

I bared my teeth in what could generously be called a smile. “How about a woman?”

Again, his eyes went to Virgil. “You’ve been pretty quiet there, stranger.”

“I haven’t told him to talk,” I snapped. Caleb’s eyebrows shot up. “His name’s Virgil. I own his life; he’ll follow me. ”

The burly bartender leaned back slowly. “Is that so…well then, Vorak, I’d say a woman like you could go far in the Boil. If you’re looking to join a gang, Pollock would appreciate your strength…but Maug would appreciate your cunning.” He glanced to one side of the bar. “Pollock’s gang drinks on that side; Miranda Tears is the one to talk to if you’re lookin’ for work, the rough-lookin’ lass at the end of the bar here. Clan Maug…” he jerked his chin the other way. “Over there. Dwarf’s the one you’d want to talk to, goes by Muggs.”

Without a word I slid another coin over and pushed myself away from the bar. Virgil followed like my surly shadow as I walked up to the dwarf nursing a mug of what was probably vile alcohol.

“What in the name of Alberich caused you to think you could talk to me?” He leered. “Speak up, girl!”

“Not a girl. Vorak. And word is you’re the one to talk to about a job.”

His eyes slid over to Virgil. “And your boyfriend there?”

“I own his life. What about him?”

The dwarf sneered. “I give you a job, you gonna send your boy out to do it?”

“You give me a job, you give _me_ a job. Not him. Gotta make sure things’re done right, you know?”

He laughed and slapped his knee. “Hah! You’ve got spunk. I like that. Okay, I’ll give you a job. You take it, though, you’ve just signed up with Clan Maug and the only way out is face-down in the river. Got that?”

I bared my teeth. “I got it. Now whatcha got for me?”

“There's this bloke Larrs, fell a bit behind on the payments, he did. Someone – that would be you – needs to drop in on old Larrs and collect the two hundred coin he owes.”

“And if he doesn’t have it?”

The dwarf smiled nastily. “Kill him.”

“Where’s he live?”

“His shack's up Northwest Boil a tad, on the left.” He took a long drink, hiding his smile.

“I’ll return with his money…” I grinned unpleasantly. “…or his blood. Virgil! Stay. No drinking. No fighting. Make nice.” I shed my pack and set it on the floor, leaning against his legs. “Guard my pack.”

“Yes, Vorak,” Virgil answered crisply.

Every eye on me, I prowled out of the bar.

When I found Larrs, I discovered him to be a sickly, starving man. He protested that he didn’t have the money and begged for pity. Although he claimed a family, I saw no evidence of anyone else living in his shack. I did, indeed, take pity on him – unfortunately, orcish pity lends itself to strangling malformed babes at birth to spare them the effort of struggling through life. Helping those who can’t help themselves only weakens the ones who are strong. I found twenty-five coin in his pockets and in a small stash in his shack, and returned to Malloy’s where I tossed it onto Muggs’s table, tied in a square of what formerly had been Larrs’s shirt.

“He didn’t have the two hundred,” I said by way of greeting. “That’s all he had – or at least, all I found searching his corpse and his shack.”

Muggs looked impressed. “I got to be tellin' you, I had you sussed as a girl that'd be unable to do the wet work. Looks like I was wrong, eh?” He shoved at the small bundle. “Keep it – that’s your payment – and head up to the Bentley north of here. Tell that fancy-pants gnome that Muggs sent you. He’ll decide if you get to see Maug.”

I picked up the bundle of coins and tucked it into my belt pouch. “I’ll do that. Virgil! Carry my pack and come.”

Without looking to make sure he’d obeyed, I turned and left the bar. He caught up to me within a few steps, but stayed respectfully in my wake as I prowled north, challenging the sneers of the orcs, half-orcs, and assorted ruffians that watched me pass with a sneer of my own. When we reached the mostly-intact hulk of a classy building that had seen better days, there was a heavily-perfumed gnome leaning insolently against the door with nasty scars on his face and an evil-looking dagger on his belt.

“And just what,” he drawled, “do you think you would be doing here?”

“Muggs sent me,” I replied shortly. “Did a job for him.”

The gnome looked me up and down, appraising me. “Well, madam, I am Milo, Mr. Maug's man Friday as it were. No one enters here without my say so.”

“Not madam,” I corrected harshly. “Vorak.”

“Oh, heavens! An attitude. How precocious. I have a soft spot for you toughs. Well, we are always in need of a good strong arm – at least, I know I certainly am.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Are you interested in a bit of the old rough work?”

I smiled right back, baring my too-sharp teeth. “I thought that was why I was here. What do you want me to do?”

“You know, the usual rival gang killing, and all that.” With false nonchalance, he examined his nails. “A swarthy gentleman, who it just so happens belongs to that dreadful Pollock gang, has taken a liking to my girl. I would like him removed from this world.”

“Bad move on his part. Where does he live?”

“Being of the Pollock gang, he lives down in the awful south Boil. He goes by the name of Treat, ugly Orcish fellow. He claims only partial Orc heritage, but to look at him you'd swear he was Orc through and through.” His gaze drifted to Virgil. “You going to help your lady-friend, here?”

“I-”

“I didn’t say you could speak,” I snarled at Virgil, whose eyes widened in unfeigned surprise.

“I-I’m sorry, Vorak.”

“He stays here,” I told Milo shortly. “You gave me a job, I’ll do the job. Give me my pack, Virgil.”

“Yes, Vorak.”

He handed it over, and I shrugged it on. “I own your life,” I reminded him. “I die, and you can have it back.”

For a moment, Virgil looked like he wanted to say something, but he subsided and I left.

I wasn’t a fool, of course. Virgil clearly wanted to warn me of something, and Milo looked perfectly capable of taking care of any average thug. Therefore, this Treat must be something…special. At the shack of the now-deceased Larrs, I stripped off my armor and put on something…less antagonistic…with my Panarii robe over top. My daggers moved from hips to wrists, and in one pocket of the robe I stashed a poisoned Molochean knife. Larrs had some things I recognized the ingredients of, and I quickly mixed together something that would cause an attacker’s muscles to lock up and stashed that in the other pocket. Taking a chance, I left my pack with Larrs’s corpse and headed south. Getting directions to Treat was as easy as flashing a bit of cleavage, and it wasn’t long before I knocked on his door and was greeted by a tall, burly man who did, indeed, look more orc than human.

“Milo sent me,” I said, letting the robe fall open enough to show a distracting amount of skin.

“What's that li'l twit be wantin'? Just cause he can't hold onto a girl ain't no problem of mine…” Treat trailed off, his eyes buried between my breasts.

The Molochean dagger made my retort for me, but reflexes faster than I would have credited to Treat meant that it bit into the flesh of his thick forearm rather than his throat. With an angry roar, the half-orc hunched over – and his skin rippled in a way that made my stomach sink. I dropped the dagger and fumbled with my other pocket, forgoing finesse to dump the paralytic mixture straight into his face, hoping to get some in his mouth. It would absorb through the skin, but that would take longer. The way he thrashed, however, made it impossible to tell if I’d succeeded. In a horrifyingly short time, I faced not an orc, but a snakelike monster with wicked claws on the ends of his fingers. I regretted my lack of armor instantly, but drew my daggers and began a game of stalling for time, dodging and ducking and occasionally swiping back. The paralytic agent kicked in first, slowing his movements until with a strangled scream he toppled over. I kicked at his face, got no reaction, and slit his throat. While he bled out, I fetched the Molochean dagger and left it buried in his heart. Disturbingly, he shifted back to an orc as the last of his life left him.

When I returned to Larrs’s shack, I simply grabbed my pack and stalked, shaking with fury and reaction, to the Bentley. I saw Virgil’s eyes widen as he took in the less-than-modest attire showing underneath my robe, his brows furrowing with worry.

“You conveniently forgot to mention he could shape shift!” I snarled at the gnome, fighting Vorak only enough to keep my hands away from my daggers.

“Tut! Tut! Such a show of emotion.” The gnome leered at me. “Why do you think I did not do the job myself? Those shape shifting snake... _things_ …are so distressingly difficult to deal with. And ugly, as well. I suppose it was too much to expect of you-”

“He’s dead,” I snapped.

“He’s – what?”

“Dead. Deceased. I carved him a second smile. There’s a dagger in his heart.”

Milo looked at me with something like respect. “I _am_ impressed. How did you manage that? Did you use…feminine wiles?”

I held one hand up, wordlessly commanding Virgil to stop without looking at him. “I mixed up a paralytic agent. He was easy enough to kill once he stopped moving.”

“Did you now,” he murmured. “Wherever did you get the ingredients for that?”

“A lot of household chemicals can be combined to do interesting things,” I answered, fighting to keep my voice even.

“You,” said Milo softly, “are a very dangerous woman. I like that. I think Mr. Maug will like that, too. I’ve had a bounty on Treat for a while, now – five hundred coin – but everyone in the Boil knows better than to tangle with him. Mainly, I used him to weed out the…unworthy…applicants. Reward’s yours, as well as an extra fifty for being brave enough to walk around in the Boil showing that much skin. Come along inside…”

The gnome produced a key and unlocked the door, waving us inside before locking it again. Silently, we followed him past a once-grand desk and down a hall lined with doors that turned twice and finally ended at what looked to be a luxury suite.

“Did you want to put your armor back on?” Milo asked with false courtesy. “Or did you want to see Mr. Maug as you are? I warn you, we’ve no privacy screens to change behind in the Boil.”

“I’ll see him as I am,” I shot back roughly.

“Wait here a moment; I’ll go speak with him.”

I half expected Virgil to comment once we were alone in the hall, but he only took my pack from me and averted his eyes. The gnome came back out a minute later, smarmily bowing and holding the door open for us. He said nothing, I said nothing, Virgil said nothing. Not bothering to properly tie the robe’s belt and cover myself more modestly, I stalked past Milo with my silent protector following.

Whatever I had been expecting of Damian Maug, an impeccably dressed, handsome human man was not it. There was a distinct aura of menace around him, and my lips peeled back slight in response to that subtle challenge – the fact that he could not have outweighed me by much meant nothing; this was a man who had power, and knew it, and was not afraid to use it.

“Ahh, the new woman. Please…come in, come in.” Genially, he waved us closer to the desk behind which he stood. “Milo told me of your work with Treat. I’m quite impressed; those of his…type…are known to be cunning adversaries.”

The thought flashed through my head that there was another cunning adversary before me – although I was showing an amount of cleavage (and occasionally thigh) that would have Clarisse mortified, his eyes had never strayed from mine.

“He wasn’t all that difficult to dispatch with the proper…preparations,” I said warily. “What exactly _was_ he?”

Maug clapped his hands together. “Bravado! Excellent! I like your style, madam. It is so rare that I meet someone with a taste for the flair, as it were. He was a descendant of those of the Black Legion. Zalakar the bold created the Black Legion long ago, during the Age of Legend. He was a brilliant mage, really. To take a worthless group of Orcs and give them the ability to transform themselves into such fearsome creatures! Brilliant!” He shook his head in a show of over-dramatic sadness. “The world is lacking such ingenuity these days.”

“Like the ingenuity you’ve shown in creating your empire here?”

“Yes,” he half-purred, “and I can recognize an opportunity when it knocks on my door. You – forgive any insult – don’t seem like you could have dispatched Treat in straight combat, but you used what I’m guessing to be a combination of distraction and…shall we say…chemical creativity? And handily took him out. You could be a powerful weapon – an assassin to match Miss Tears of Pollock’s gang.”

I heard the unspoken continuation. “Or…?” I prompted.

“Or…you could be a powerful _secret_ weapon, crafting chemicals with which other, less-clever brutes can accomplish feats beyond their means.”

I crossed my arms and lifted my chin slightly. “What are you offering?”

“A private room, here in the Bentley. Whatever supplies you need, my boys will fetch for you. In return, you mix me up things that can help me take out Pollock and his gang.” Thinly, he smiled. “Room and board for you in exchange for unconventional weaponry for me.” Slowly, deliberately, his cold eyes drifted over my shoulder. “Oh, and it's _so_ good to see you again, Virgil.” He smirked as my protector stiffened behind me. “It _has_ been awhile since you have shown your face in the Boil. Come to join my gang at last? I’m afraid I’ll have to…test your loyalty.”

“I own his life,” I snarled. “He works for me, not for you.”

“Really? How interesting. What say you, then, to this: you lend him to me for guard duty – patrols and the like. He’ll room with you, and I’ll provide a handful of coin a week so that you can send him into town to run errands for you.”

“In other words, I won’t be leaving the Bentley.”

“You are quite correct.”

“Day shifts only,” I said instantly. “I’ll do my work overnight.”

Maug’s eyebrows raised slightly. “Done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both Maug and Pollock recognize Virgil on sight, in the game. I don't know what that boy's history in the Boil was, but it must have been interesting. I disconnected the 'kill Maug' quest from its plot rails - It's more likely that Willoughby would throw money at the Underground to solve the problem than rely on Sebastian and the complete stranger who wanders by in the street.
> 
> Likewise, I made Madam Lil's quest a bit less game-mechanic-y. Most of the conversation came from the dialogue file, but I extrapolated a few things and did a little fleshing out...and then Virgil opened his mouth. It's another persuasion dialogue, natch. 
> 
> To those who haven't played the game: yes, the whorehouse has a sheep. Yes, female characters can pay for prostitutes. No, you can't actually get your followers laid.
> 
> Orcs aren't very bright, and they respect strength. "I saved your life so I own it" seems like something that would be a cultural thing for them, so I went with it. It's something that would explain Maug getting his start in the Boil, anyway.
> 
> Clarisse Vorak is very careful to not bare her teeth where Virgil could see them; orcs have sharp teeth and elves don't, so it's a dead giveaway that she's not a half-elf. 
> 
> Conversations with Muggs and Milo have been mostly pulled from the game. The quest to kill Pollock is just slightly unrealistic, and the floor plan of the Bentley even more so. I have unrepentantly adjusted them.
> 
> No, Clarisse Vorak never asked Virgil about his time in the Boil or why Damian Maug knows him on sight and by name. Her demand for day shifts is meant to keep Maug from getting Virgil killed in the middle of the night, not to mention avoiding the awkwardness of having to share a bed with him. 
> 
> You can pretty much assume from here on out that I'm throwing out the game's enforced order of things - in a real, living world, events wouldn't pause for a protagonist who's running hither and yon doing side-quests.


	6. The Boil

The door opened, much later than I had been expecting. Our dingy one-room flat didn’t afford much in the way of cover, but it had a water closet with a curtain and it was there that I stood, tense, dagger in one hand and Virgil’s shaving glass in the other, watching the door through the glass’s reflection. Although the glass was too small to get a good view, I did catch a familiar head of unruly light-brown hair and Virgil’s flushed face. I tucked the dagger away and replaced the glass in his shaving kit before pushing back the curtain to see what had taken Virgil nearly three hours longer than his estimate. The unsteady movements and slurred speech that greeted me answered my question more clearly than Virgil could have, in that state, and I helped him fumble his armor off while my brain ransacked itself for the contents of our shabby cabinets and matched ingredients up with a formula. Once the armor had been draped carelessly on a rickety chair, I forced Virgil down on the pathetic mattress and propped him up against the wall. It took a few attempts until he stayed there and did not fall over, too inebriated to argue or put up much resistance.

The purgative wasn’t hard to whip up; I grabbed the smaller metal basin meant for washing dishes and a clean, wet rag, and went to kneel by my protector. It took no urging at all for him to drink down the purgative, and positioning both him and the basin wasn’t much more difficult. When he’d finished, I wiped his face with the rag and set it and the basin aside before easing him down onto his side on the mattress. He was shivering and sweating from the results of the purgative, and I covered him with the thin blanket before I allowed myself the luxury of emotional reaction. Fortunately, he’d released his tenuous hold on consciousness and my quiet, relieved fretting fell on deaf ears. Once I’d gotten that out of the way, I set to work cleaning out the basin and finishing my other chemical projects. The addition of a hangover cure to my workload was practically nothing, and I quickly settled into my nighttime routine, humming snatches of song while cheerfully chopping, mixing, crushing, and distilling.

It wasn’t that I’d been unhappy in my very brief stint as just another thug in Maug’s gang, because I _had_ missed the feral freedom of being Vorak, but it was my skills as an apothecary that had gotten us into what passed for the lap of luxury in the Boil. So while Virgil chummed it up with the other low-level scum by day, walking patrols and guarding half-empty warehouses, I brewed elixirs by night that made Maug’s favorites temporarily stronger, or faster, or tougher. Because I only gave ingredient lists and not recipes, Maug had no way to know which chemicals I was using for which elixirs, and I was amassing quite a stockpile of the raw ingredients for a hallucinogenic mixture that, when breathed or absorbed through the skin, caused the victim to lose all touch with reality for an hour or two. After all, even if we killed Maug, we’d still have to escape the Boil. Pollock’s gang was coming out second-best in their clashes, now, and I expected that Clan Maug would rule the Boil easily…eventually. In the meantime, Virgil made forays into the better parts of Tarant in the early mornings or evenings, selling the classier mixtures and bringing back certain ingredients hidden in packages of better food than the Boil could supply. So far, the Schuylers hadn’t surfaced, although Virgil did report that there was a city-dwarf lurking around the shop lately. Sometimes, he was given a day off and he spent it doing odd work in town to build up our stash of coin. A few times, he came back looking…relaxed…and I knew he’d done a job for Madam Lil. Tonight, he’d been drinking with Milo and Maug’s other trusted lieutenants, worming his way deeper into their confidence, building on his reputation as my bondman.

Around dawn, Virgil started stirring unhappily. As I had finished my work for the night, I set the mug of hangover cure within reach and knelt by his head, giving in to temptation and brushing his sweaty hair away from his face with tender fingers. I could no longer deny to myself that I loved this poor, sweet man who had followed me unhesitatingly into the worst section of Tarant. He saw himself as my protector, and in turn I felt it my duty to protect him, as well. Or perhaps it was my father’s blood, insisting that Virgil was part of my tribe and therefore, my territory. In any case, I loved him even more for silently brushing elbows with the shadows of his past for my sake. When he groaned and flailed towards his face, I caught his hand and brought it to the clay mug before he could accidentally knock it over.

“What-?” he croaked.

“It’s a hangover cure,” I soothed. “Drink it. You’ll feel better.”

The hand released the mug and retreated back under the blanket. “No,” he said, his voice deeper and rougher and _harder_ than I was used to hearing.

Startled, I leaned away, eyeing that tousled head warily. As if he could see my expression through his closed eyelids, Virgil hunched deeper under the blanket and tried to bury his face in the ratty pillow. Minutes passed without a sound, without a single motion to betray that time had not halted its unrelenting march. Inside my mind, I struggled to balance Vorak’s ready rage with Clarisse’s quiet pain.

“Why are you angry with me?” I flinched as the words left my mouth; they’d come out sharp and challenging.

“I’m not angry at you,” Virgil shot back, sounding so furious that my mouth had opened to call him on his lie when he continued, “I’m angry at _myself_.”

Vorak retreated out of respect, leaving me Clarisse, and worried. “Virgil..?”

“I thought I was _better_ than this,” he spat, words half-muffled. “That I had some measure of self-control. But _no_ , one taste of absinthe and I turn into a bloody _pig_ , wallowing in the filth of this place until I can barely stand to stagger back. I don’t _deserve_ your bloody hangover cure. I _deserve_ to suffer through this. Maybe that will teach me to shut my mouth before I pour the whole bloody _bottle_ into it!” Weakly, he pounded his fist against the floor.

Mouth open, my mind churned to fit this piece in with the rest of the clues I’d gathered about Virgil’s background. I felt it a fair assumption that absinthe had been his drink of choice, and that he’d over-indulged on multiple occasions.

“Some protector I am,” he went on, more bitter than loud. “You should leave me here to rot. Go back to the Panarii temple, tell them who you are, let them escort you to Caladon. Find someone better to protect you and stop wasting your time with me.”

“Is that what you want?” I asked sharply, somewhat surprised that I couldn’t tell which side of me was angrier.

Now he opened his eyes and looked up at me, anguish and agony and longing written plainly across his features. “Of course not.”

Without looking, I picked up the mug and brought it to his lips. “Then you will drink this, and go on your patrol today, and when you return tonight you will bring me a bottle of absinthe. If anyone asks, I am furious with you for not sharing.”

“What are you going to do with it?” asked Virgil warily. “You’re not going to…”

“I’m not going to drink it. _You_ are going to drink _this,_ ” I repeated, and obediently he levered himself up to swallow the liquid in the mug. “I am going to see what I can make with it. Perhaps I can alter it in some way so that it loses its inebriating properties, or use it to concoct a preventative antidote to prevent your faculties from being clouded by unaltered absinthe.”

I could see Virgil struggling as he lay back down. With pride, perhaps, or guilt…but when he finally spoke, it was to whisper, “You’re the Living One. My life is yours to do with as you will.”

Although he had to have been expecting me to chide him for calling me that, all I did was resume stroking his hair until the cure I’d mixed for him had erased the after-effects of inebriation. Neither of us spoke as he rose and donned his armor again, or grimly chewed the half-stale bread that passed for his breakfast, washed down with a mug of water. As he turned to leave, however, I called his name and he looked half-fearfully over his shoulder at me.

“Thank you,” I said softly. “For everything you’ve done for me, for doing…” I gestured at the boarded-up window. “…this.”

“For you, Miss…Vorak,” he said, catching himself at the last second, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I’ll see you tonight, and I’ll bring you that bottle of absinthe.” Shyly, he added, “Thank you.”

The door closed behind him; I barred it and lay down on the mattress to take my rest, mind already gnawing at the puzzle of freeing my protector from the phantom grip of the bottle.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t know what you did to it, Vorak,” said Virgil, admiring the green liquid that sloshed inside the bottle. “Ever since you mixed this up for me, I haven’t wanted regular absinthe. I mean – I’ll have a drink, and I enjoy it, but then…” He looked at me, watching for a reaction. “It’s like eating a good meal and being full. You know the food still tastes good, and you _could_ eat more, but you’re not really hungry. The boys think I’ve got amazing self-control because I don’t…” Flushing now, he looked away.

“I am a harsh mistress,” I said with dry humor, taking the bottle and tucking it away in the top cabinet. “The mixture will only protect you so long as you continue taking it each morning. I have not cured you, merely given you a weapon with which to cure yourself.”

“Thank you for not asking,” he said softly, still looking away.

My back to his, I replied, “I could say the same.”

“Pollock’s gang is starting to get desperate,” Virgil said once the silence had stretched enough. “There’s rumors that Maug will launch a direct assault soon.”

“Not personally,” I half-asked, sitting at the table whose surface held many assorted bottles, canisters, and jugs.

Virgil laughed and took the other chair. “No, not personally. He didn’t get where he is by risking his neck. But Milo…”

I caught his meaning immediately. If the gnome were leading the charge, Maug would be relying only on a pair of full-blood orcs for protection. It would be a splendid opportunity. Whether Pollock lived or died, we would have an excellent chance at killing Maug and escaping the Boil in the confusion.

“We need to find out for sure,” I said quietly. “Bring me another bottle of absinthe. Confess to Milo that the reason you haven’t been imbibing as enthusiastically is that I’ve found a way to make it even better. Invite him over to share my latest batch.” Lips firmly together, I smiled. “I have something I want to try out, and this is the perfect occasion.”

For a long moment, Virgil looked at me warily. “Milo was right,” he said slowly. “You _are_ a dangerous woman. I’d say I was crazy for following your lead, but I know I’d be in _more_ danger if you ever had a reason to turn against me.”

“Virgil, you can’t think that I would ever…”

“No,” he smiled. “I trust you. I just can’t believe that I’m living in a dingy hotel room in the Boil, calmly plotting against a very dangerous man, and…I think this is the _happiest_ I’ve been in a long, long time.”

My cheeks burned, and I looked away. When I looked back, Virgil was adjusting the straps on his armor. “Be safe,” I told him, as I did every morning.

“Guard duty on the west warehouse today,” he said. “I’ll be back with that absinthe well before ten. Milo’s next day off is in three days.”

“That’s more than enough time.”

“I’ll see you tonight, Vorak.” Virgil smiled briefly.

I returned the momentary smile. “You’d better, or I will be very put out with you.”

Once Virgil had left, I barred the door and checked over my supplies. I’d need more spirit of camphor and tincture of arnica, and as always, more of Varham’s Aqua Vitae. The mushrooms Virgil had smuggled in for me were growing nicely under the sink, and every two weeks I decanted some of the hallucinate elixir into an empty bottle before adding more Aqua Vitae and chopped mushrooms to the parent batch brewing in a two-gallon jug. Once my shopping list had been tallied, I gathered the assorted bottles of combat-enhancing tinctures and delivered them to Maug’s stock master. He thanked me and handed over everything I asked for, and I retreated to the room I’d been given with next week’s requests. This week’s decanting would wait until Virgil returned; I put my supplies on the counter in the kitchen area and curled up to get some sleep while I could.

The mattress smelled like Virgil.

 

* * *

  
When Virgil finished barring the door and turned around, my hands were on him, flitting here and there, loosening buckles and straps until he could slide out of his armor…and I could rein in the desire to let my hands continue to removing his shirt, and slide over his naked chest.

“Decanting tonight,” I said by way of greeting, forcing myself away from all things I wanted to, but could never, say.

Virgil wrinkled his nose in mock-revulsion and held out a bottle filled with green liquid. “And celebration after?”

Laughing, I took the bottle. “We’ll see.”

We wore damp rags over our noses and mouths as we decanted the hallucinate carefully into an empty bottle of Varham’s and corked it. Virgil fed the small pieces of mushroom into the jug as I chopped them, and poured in the new bottle of Aqua Vitae. When the jug had been safely corked and hidden away again, we cautiously removed our makeshift masks and breathed tentatively – but the world remained as it should have been.

“Success,” I announced dryly, pouring out a measure of absinthe and handing it to him.

One packet of migraine cure…I unwrapped the folded paper and tipped its grainy contents into the bottle of absinthe. Mercury…where had I put that thermometer? There…there…this one. I fished it out from its inconspicuous tin of Famous Blood Pills and broke it against the counter, pouring the precious mercury into the bottle and discarding the glass. Once that was done I twisted the cap back on, making sure it was tight, and shook the absinthe to ensure its new ingredients were well-mixed. Finally, I tucked it in the high cabinet opposite the one that held Virgil’s anti-absinthe. When I turned back to my protector, I found him holding the glass…which still had absinthe in it.

“Virgil?”

Looking somewhat astounded, he said, “I don’t really want it. It smells lovely, but I’ve always liked anise. It just…” He took one step and poured the green liquid down the sink. “…doesn’t hold that much appeal for me anymore.”

“Time for a celebration, indeed.” I smiled warmly and took the glass from him, washed it out, and put it to dry with the others. “I think we still have some of the smoked beef you smuggled in…”

Side by side we sat on the mattress, eating bread and cheese and beef, quietly reveling in our nearness to each other. If my fingers happened to tangle with his, what of it? His were equally tight around mine, making my heart race and fueling dreams that could never be. Perhaps if we were to never leave this rough place, no one would care about the impropriety…but I had no doubt that eventually, events would force us out of our protective squalor and into the harsh light of society once again.

“I’d better get some sleep,” Virgil said finally. “Milo’s interested in the amazing absinthe he thinks you make; I’ll bring him by day after tomorrow. Do we have any more liquid soap?” He grimaced, fingers releasing mine reluctantly to dig at his hair.

“Let me check.” I dug through my assorted supplies and found a half-empty bottle. “Yes.”

Virgil took it with a look of gratitude. “Thank you. North patrol tomorrow, and I’d be scratching my scalp bloody if I had to do it without a shower first.”

He vanished into the water closet with its precious tiny shower and I cleared the counter in preparation for my night’s work. The hot water wasn’t the best – it took a few minutes to crawl through the pipes – but it was a mark of Maug’s favor that we had any at all. I could tell when it finally kicked in from Virgil’s groan of relief. It wasn’t wholly attention to my work that kept my back to the rest of the flat when he emerged finally – there was nowhere in the water closet to set fresh clothes where they wouldn’t be soaked from the shower’s spray.

“Good night, Vorak,” he called softly as he crawled into what passed for our shared bed.

For just a moment, I let myself pretend that I’d be joining him.

“Good night, Virgil.”  
 

* * *

 

 

“Is this supposed to happen?” asked Virgil nervously.

“Yes,” I answered with a confidence I didn’t feel.

Milo shook his head groggily. “Is what supposed to happen?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “You were saying…? About the assault on Pollock?”

“Was I? Oh yes, that’s right.” Eyes still glassy, the gnome casually detailed the entire planned assault, including what security precautions Maug would have in place.

“Fascinating! And you say you’re the one who decides which two will be guarding his door?” I leaned forward as though enthralled.

“Don’t you think that could cause some problems?” Virgil sounded concerned. “I mean…those two…they’re bound to make trouble if they aren’t allowed to go bash some skulls tomorrow. Why not…” He suggested two orcs that, while fearsome in combat, could be outsmarted by a three-year-old child. “They’d be so happy you let them guard the boss that they wouldn’t care they missed the fight.”

Milo frowned, and I held my breath. Those two had never been allowed to guard Damian Maug’s door for that exact reason – any intruder would be able to talk his or her way past them. “That’s a good idea,” he said slowly. “I’ll make the change. Say, can I have another shot of at absinthe?”

Virgil and I glanced at each other. “You’ve already had it,” I said firmly. “It was the best absinthe you’ve ever had. You can’t believe how good it was.”

“Oh yeah…amazing stuff, Vorak. I don’t know what you did to it, but that was the best absinthe I’ve ever had. I can’t believe how good it was. No wonder your boyfriend doesn’t touch the regular stuff anymore.”

“I think it’s time for you to go,” I urged. “You’ve got that change to make. Good thing you thought it up yourself, because you’d never betray Damian Maug’s confidence by discussing the assault plan with us.”

“I think it’s time for me to go,” Milo echoed, the glassy look leaving his eyes. “Thank you for sharing your _astoundingly_ good absinthe with me, Vorak. Virgil, you’re off-duty tomorrow as a reward.”

Whistling cheerfully, he hopped down from the chair and sauntered to the door, which Virgil barred behind him.

“Tomorrow,” he whimpered.

“Pack,” I ordered. “Get our things together, then get some sleep. We’ve got an exciting day ahead of us.”

“What about you?” he asked, quiet worry in his voice.

“I’ve still got some cocoa and tobacco. I’ll make myself a stimulant and sleep like the dead tomorrow night. It will help me go back to being awake in the day, as well. In the meantime, I’ve got to get our chemical weaponry prepared.”

Virgil didn’t answer in words, but I caught glimpses of him shooting me sharp looks as he gathered our belongings and stored them in our packs. He laid out his armor and sword, and my armor and daggers, and sullenly curled up on the mattress. Despite his worry, he was asleep in minutes. The plan called for Maug’s boys to assemble around dawn. We wouldn’t have much time; Pollock’s gang had been nearly wiped out, and he was holed up with the few brutes he had left, but Milo would be leading the charge from the shoulders of a half-ogre armed with a repeater rifle. How Maug had gotten his hands on one, no one knew. As quietly as possible, I pried up one of the boards covering our shattered window and peered out at the darkened Boil. Yes, I should be able to see them leaving from here, and then Virgil and I would have to move quickly. There was no way to know how soon the battle would be over.

I replaced the board and went to my chemical supplies. The bottles of hallucinate went onto the counter, while the absinthe that had been doctored into an interrogation formula went into several smaller bottles. Most of them, I tucked into our packs, but I kept one out. Just in case. Upon further reflection, I dug out the bottle of Molochean poison and carefully put a few drops in each of the helpful elixirs I’d made this week. To dump them would be to proclaim our guilt, but I didn’t want to just leave them there to be used by a rowdy and out-of-control bunch of thugs. Virgil’s anti-absinthe got packed away as well, along with the small batches of healing salve and such things, all carefully tucked into sturdy metal tins.

When there was nothing left to do but fret, I took a shower. The lukewarm water and harsh soap washed away my frantic thoughts, and when I emerged, I was Vorak once again. My lack of clothing did not bother me as I covered my nose and mouth with a sodden cloth and screwed a spray top onto one of the bottles of hallucinate. After all, if Virgil woke up, he would be highly unlikely to comment and more than likely to put it down as a dream. And I did so hate putting clothes on over wet skin.

Once I was dry and clothed, I dug out my sketchbook and jotted down all the things I’d been keeping in memory since my arrival in the Boil, then re-read my previous entries. When Maug was dead, our search for the owner of the ring would have highest priority – and I did not intend to let that James Kingsford fellow brush me off again. The addition of mercury and migraine cure to absinthe seemed to erase an imbiber’s memory of the few minutes preceding; Mr. Kingsford would never remember if he’d had it forced down his throat. When there was nothing more to read or write, I returned the sketchbook to its hidden compartment in the Molochean Hand agent’s pack, where the mysterious ‘GB’ ring was, and lost myself in watching Virgil sleep until the sky began to shed its velvety darkness. I checked my loose board, but no one was stirring outside…yet.

Restless again, I double-checked that Virgil had packed all of our things, double-checked the items we’d be leaving behind, triple-checked the ones we’d be using, and donned my armor. By that time, the first bits of the assault force were gathering outside, and I nudged Virgil.

“Mrghph,” he protested, and tried to roll over.

My makeshift mortar and pestle were good enough to grind dried leaves together; a bit of water turned them into a thick paste, and I tucked half of it into my cheek and forced Virgil’s mouth open enough to get the other half into _his_ cheek. It wasn’t long before he came awake with a start, made a face at the taste, and reconsidered the urge to spit out the stimulant.

“I guess it’s time then, eh?” he asked quietly.

“Get your armor on,” I said shortly, my attention back on the group gathered outside. Milo was there, as was the half-ogre with the rifle. “Take the bottle with the spray top. We’ll leave the packs and the rest of the bottles here, and wear the Panarii robes. If we can’t talk our way past the two orcs, give them a spritz and hold your breath. I don’t know if Maug will be awake, or armed. We’ll have to fake it.”

“I’ve got a Molochean dagger,” Virgil said quietly as he finished adjusting buckles and straps.

“Good. That will muddy our trail. We’ll kill him, take his head and whatever else looks valuable, and come back here to grab our packs. Then we’ll make for the Garillon Bridge, spraying anyone in our way.” Realizing that we’d need masks, I strode to the kitchen area and brought out the rags we used for decanting and set them in a bowl of water.

“You own my life, Vorak.” Virgil’s voice was steadier than I would have expected. “I’ll follow you.”

Sword, daggers, poisoned dagger, hallucinate spray-bottle, vial of altered absinthe, robes. Outside, the majority of Clan Maug let out a roar that rattled the shards of glass still clinging to the window’s frame, and charged towards the South Boil. We were ready. I unbarred the door and Virgil followed like my shadow as I strode down the hall towards Maug’s office. Just as Virgil had suggested, the two dumbest orcs in the gang were there, fearsome with their broad axes and heavy clubs until one saw that no intelligence shone from their eyes.

“Boss wanted to see me,” I said with the air of one reporting as expected.

“Oh,” one of them said dully. “Right. I open door.”

Helpfully, the near-mindless brute held the door for us as we entered.

“What is it now?” Damian Maug snapped without looking up from his desk.

I flipped the lid off the vial of altered absinthe and charged. He looked up, but too late – with one hand I grabbed his hair and yanked his head back, and with the other I shoved the vial half into his mouth, the contents nearly spilling straight down his throat. He choked, but he’d swallowed the full dose and after a few seconds, his eyes glazed over.

“I’ve killed Pollock,” I said calmly, releasing his hair. “This is completely normal and expected, and you want to reward me.”

“Of course,” he said dazedly.

“You want to show me where you keep all the money.”

“It’s right over here…”

Wobbling slightly, he walked over to a chest and unlocked it. Several neat bags of coin sat inside.

“You want to give me a water-proof bag to carry it in,” was my next suggestion.

Obediently, Maug hefted an oilskin sack.

“That’s a nice hat. You want to wear it, then sit down at your desk and fall asleep.”

Virgil moved forward and pulled Maug’s chair out; wearing the bag as a hat, he sat and let himself slump, unconscious. Without hesitating, Virgil plunged the Molochean dagger into the heart of Damien Maug. I held my fingers on his throat, waiting for his heart to stop. When it did, I bent the body over the desk and held it steady while Virgil chopped off its head. With the oilskin bag already in place, it was simplicity itself to get the head inside and the bag tied without any further mess. I traded it to Virgil for the bottle of hallucinate, and he found a larger sack to hold both the oilskin bag, and our new and uncounted riches. When he was ready, he nodded. Hoods down again, we left the office.

“Boss doesn’t want to be disturbed,” I growled at the orcs.

“Okay-dokey,” was the genial reply.

No one stopped us on the way to our room.

“I’m not putting that thing in our packs,” Virgil said as I started lifting sacks of coin out of the bag.

“You carry it, then,” I told him.

He nodded.

We strapped on our packs, loaded the pockets of our robes with bottles of hallucinate, and tied wet rags over our faces. I looked at him; he nodded, and we began our escape.

It was easier than I’d feared; one spritz was all it took to send a gang member running, and at that we didn’t encounter more than a dozen on our way to Caleb’s bar – but we didn’t stop there. None of the Tarant guards gave us a second glance as we made our way to the bridge, and once we were halfway across I tucked the bottle away.

“We did it,” Virgil said, voice high and wobbly with relief.

“We’re not done yet,” I reminded him grimly. “You’re still carrying a head.”

“Oh, yes. Right. Uh…we should turn this in before it starts to smell, and then I think we’ve earned a good meal and a hot bath at the Bridesdale Inn…although maybe not in that order.”

“I heartily agree,” I said, feeling a bubble of laughter catch in my throat. Although laden with the scents of machinery and oceanic refuse, the air of Tarant smelled sweet indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surly Virgil demands absinthe and chugs it if you piss him off. I extrapolated.
> 
> The Elixir of Persuasion as something you drink doesn't make sense to me as a thing that raises your ability to talk someone into something...plus, who wants to drink something with mercury in it? So I made it something you make someone else drink, and they become susceptible to suggestion.
> 
> Although it probably won't come up in the story, Pollock did die and Milo became top dog of the Boil. On the one hand, he's displeased at Vorak because he lost a bunch of men to her poisoned elixirs and figured out she was probably behind Maug's death. On the other hand, he considers her dangerous enough to not try to enact vengeance on...and he did wind up in charge, so it's not worth getting his knickers in a twist over because she left and is unlikely to return.


	7. Tarant: Resolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's kind of been two years since this muse had her way with me, and I never posted this chapter because in the original file, the scene was incomplete. Turns out there was a perfectly good scene change sitting right there that could be used as an ending point, so my apologies for that. The good news is that I enabled myself into playing the game again while enabling a friend, so I should have some more updates soon!

Two apparent Panarii raised no eyebrows walking through the center of Tarant; Virgil led me up Kensington Broadway to the Panarii temple on Lion’s Head Circle, where he picked the lock on the back door and the store room. We hid our packs behind a dusty-looking crate, covered with our robes, and left looking as if we belonged in the rougher side of town. From Lion’s Head Circle we went down Low Dervish Row – which looked quite grand indeed after the Boil – and then all the way to the end of Quilton Bend, where Virgil rapped a specific pattern against the door. The finely-dressed man who answered – and what I could see of the house’s interior – could have come from one of the better neighborhoods.

“Virgil! Haven’t seen you in a bit. Come in, let’s not get the neighbors talking.” He waved us inside. “And who’s your lovely friend?”

Although he sounded genial, there was an unfriendly cast to his eyes and, still jumpy, I responded to the unspoken threat without thinking. “Vorak. I own his life.”

“And you’re welcome to it,” the man said, respect now replacing the unfriendliness.

“Thaddeus, this is Miss Clarisse Vorak. Miss Clarisse, Mr. Thaddeus Mynor of the Thieves’ Underground.”

I fought Vorak down out of respect for the note of nervousness in Virgil’s voice. “Charmed.”

“Likewise, I’m sure. What brings you here today, Virgil?”

My protector held out the oilskin bag. “Turning in a job. The Maug job.”

“The Ma-” Mynor eyed the bag. “You’re serious. You brought me the head of Damian Maug? I’d heard his gang just about wiped out Pollock’s. How did you get out alive?”

“Pollock may be dead by now,” I said. “The gang led an all-out assault at dawn.”

“Ah…Miss Clarisse and I have been…uh…in Maug’s pay, as it were.”

“No better way to get close to your enemy than by being his friend, eh? Very impressive. Let me just bring that to the kitchen for verification…don’t want it dripping on the rug…I’ll be right back.”

Mynor took the bag from Virgil and vanished deeper into his house, leaving us in the well-furnished sitting room. He came back looking deeply impressed a minute later. “That is absolutely the head of Damian Maug. You’ve earned yourselves ten thousand and the respect of every pickpocket and footpad in the Underground.” He pulled an amulet out of his shirt and offered it to me. “For you, madam. This is the key to the wards on the chest containing the ten thousand. It will only open for the one wearing the amulet, and it’s quite impervious to destruction. Where would you like it delivered?”

“Virgil?” I asked, settling the amulet inside my armor.

“We don’t…uh…exactly have a permanent residence,” my protector explained.

Mynor didn’t look surprised. “Looking to rent something?”

“No…have it delivered to the back door of the Panarii temple. Knock three times, then twice, then another three and we’ll open the door.”

“Yes,” I said when the other man’s eyes darted to mine as though seeking confirmation.

“Alright. I’ll round up a few fellows and we’ll meet you there.”

 

* * *

 

 

An hour later, Virgil and I stood in the back room, staring at the impressive oak chest Mynor and his burly helpers had delivered. Slowly, I reached for the simple catch and lifted. The lid came up easily, revealing tube after tube of paper-wrapped coins. They didn’t fill the chest, of course; it was larger than it needed to be in order to make it easier to be carried by two men.

“We’re rich, Miss Clarisse,” Virgil said softly, an odd note in his voice.

“Get the sacks from Maug out of our packs,” I told him. “And the bottles of hallucinate. We’ll store them in the chest.”

“May as well make use of all that room, eh?”

Virgil started handing me sacks of jingling coin and clinking – what? I set the clinking one aside and piled the rest in, then stacked the bottles to one side. While he closed up our packs, I peeked into the sack that didn’t sound like the others, and gasped.

“Miss Clarisse? What – oh.” Virgil’s alarm faded into awe as he saw the gems and jewelry inside the bag.

Hastily, I closed it and put it in the chest before closing the lid. “We’ll look at it all later. Half of it’s probably stolen anyway.” Cheeks pink, I turned away and shrugged into my robe before hefting my pack. “Let’s go get a room for the night.”

Virgil put on his own robe and pack, then looked thoughtfully at the dust in the store room. “Do you suppose there’s a key ring we could, ah, liberate for you?” The way he kept his back to me hinted that he was doing his best to reassure me he wouldn’t ask.

For all that I could pretend to be a gently-bred human woman, I’d never owned so much as a silver bangle. Now I had a fair ransom of gold and gems to wear, and I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about it.

While Virgil poked around in the other rooms lining this back hallway, I fished out the ring of keys I’d liberated from the temple in Shrouded Hills and occupied myself with fitting each one inside the storeroom’s lock and seeing if it turned. To my surprise, one of them worked. Virgil returned to find me standing by the half-open door, locking and unlocking it, watching the bolt extend and retract.

“Well,” he said with the air of one not questioning fate, “I guess that solves that. Uh…try the back door?”

I closed and locked the storeroom door, then tried the key that had worked on the other temple’s back door. It worked on the back door of Tarant’s temple. Without a word I locked it and tucked the keys in my belt pouch.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” Virgil said as he led the way towards Desaille Terrace towards Vermillion Road. “After all, you _are_ the, uh, y-you are who you…are.”

I remembered fingers tightening around mine and was suddenly irrationally furious at whoever had written the prophesy of Nasrudin’s rebirth and placed this invisible barrier between us. If I weren’t the Living One, perhaps Virgil might look past my orcish blood…he’d taken my propensity towards violence in stride, after all. Unwilling to trust myself to talk, I flipped up my hood and followed him in silence.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Vorak,” the innkeeper said cheerfully after looking at the entry in the guest book. “A pleasure to have you back again.”

“We’ll need a room for the week,” Virgil said loftily, as though his cheeks weren’t darkening ever so slightly at the incorrect assumption of our wedded state.

“Of course, of course…this way…”

“You get the bath first,” said Virgil with a bow once we were alone in our room. “I’ll lay out something to wear to lunch and start putting our things in the chest of drawers.”

I smiled gratefully, feeling the sing of stimulant tug against my body’s demand for sleep. “Thank you.”

For several minutes I simply soaked in the tub; then I investigated the canisters provided. I scrubbed the grime of the Boil out of my skin and my hair which, although it had again regrown to something less outlandish, was pitifully dry from the harsh soap I’d used on it. Thankfully, there was a bottle of scented oil and I reveled in the sweet aroma as it soothed and softened my poor hair. By the time I emerged and wrapped myself in the generous cotton towel, I again felt civilized. Remembering the last time, I made a show of rattling the door before I emerged so that Virgil could turn his back. I couldn’t help but smile as he edged around to the bathroom, but my amusement died as the desire to let the towel fall caused a surprisingly strong ache. Somberly, I dressed and finished what unpacking Virgil hadn’t managed while he bathed. Despite this, however, my heart leaped when he emerged clean and shaven and clothed, once again looking like a proper gentleman. When he offered me his arm, smiling as though the last several weeks had never happened, I took it and let him lead me off to lunch.

 

* * *

 

 

“What do you think, Miss Clarisse?” Virgil asked as we strolled around the grounds of Tarant University after lunch. “What should we do next?”

“If by ‘next’ you mean ‘today’, I’d say we should pretend we haven’t a care in the world. We’ll need to have words with Mr. Kingsford about the Schuylers, but I don’t want to deal with that until I’ve had a full night’s sleep.”

“And when we find the owner of the ring and deliver the gnome’s message, what then?” he asked quietly. “Will we just hare off at whatever we’re pointed in the direction of, letting ourselves be led around by the nose until the ‘last battle’ with ‘the evil one’?”

Truthfully, I felt the same quiet despair that I heard in his voice. “I suppose it will depend on the owner of the ring.”

In silence, we walked on for a handful of minutes.

“If we survive all of this,” Virgil said suddenly, “what will you do with yourself?”

Surprised, I blurted out, “I suppose I’ll enroll here and finish my studies. I was apprenticed to a doctor, before…to pay the bills, I mean, while I studied. I could do that again. Perhaps set up my own shop and cater to the rougher parts of society. How about you?”

Virgil sighed. “I don’t know. I didn’t exactly have much going for me before I met you. I-I suppose…I’ll continue studying the ways of the Panarii with Elder Joachim.”

“The innkeeper thinks we’re married.”

He laughed. “I suppose, after all we’ve been through together, we do sort of give that impression. Not that I would ever _dream_ of marrying you, of course.”

He said it so lightly, so casually dismissive, that it felt like a dagger in my heart. I dropped his arm, fighting back the unexpected sting of tears. “Because of your Panarii prophesy?” I spat. “Because you think I’m the reincarnation of Nasrudin, you won’t even _consider_ the possibility?”

Shocked by the virulence in my tone, Virgil stared at me, mouth working soundlessly. “I – you think – No! Wait, listen,” he hurried on, half-reaching for me. “This isn’t _about_ you being the Living One! I…you’re a _lady_ , and a doctor, and you’ll do great things, and I…” His shoulders slumped in defeat, arms falling limp at his sides while his gaze dropped to the ground. “I’m just a piece of street trash, a hoodlum pretending to be something I’m not. I’m not good enough for you, Miss Clarisse.”

Relief and concern tangled together, only to be shoved aside by orcish rage. My backhand caught him by surprise, and one hand rose tentatively to his cheek while he stared at me, hurt warring with anger in his eyes.

“Vorak,” I corrected harshly.

“I-I-I…I beg your pardon?”

“If you will persist in wallowing in your base origins, then I have no choice but to do the same. My name is Vorak. Since you will not acknowledge that you have risen above what you were born as and deal with me as a civilized man to a civilized woman, then you will deal with me as a hoodlum to an orc.” Somehow, my fists had become knotted in the front of his shirt, pulling him nearly off-balance towards me. “And orcs take what they want.”

I felt his surprise as my lips dominated his, and then his hands went gingerly to my hips and tentatively, he kissed me back. When I deepened the kiss, he groaned and pulled me closer.

“Clarisse-!” he breathed when we finally parted, as though my name were a prayer. “Or…I suppose I should say…Vorak?”

“That depends,” I half-growled, fists still in his shirt. “Are you going to stop being a silly goose about what you think is good enough for me?”

Virgil smiled sheepishly. “Ah…I-I believe I’ve learned my lesson. Although…I may need you to…repeat that lesson sometime?” he finished hopefully.

The rush of adrenaline and anger left me as swiftly as it had arrived, Vorak satisfied by this show of submission, leaving me Clarisse once again. I removed my hands from his person with a measure of embarrassment and smoothed my skirts, once more the picture of a well-bred human woman. “If you’re sure,” I said demurely.

He took my hands in his. “Miss Clarisse…Vorak…whichever you are, I don’t care. When I’m with you, I feel like _I_ can do great things. You are the light that lifted me out of the darkness. Whether we’re courting like civilized people or going at it like wild animals, I-I would be _delighted_ and honored to have you be mine…or to be yours.”

“Oh, Virgil-!”

My protector smiled as he pulled me gently into his arms. “I _did_ dedicate my life to you, didn’t I?”

I couldn’t help but laugh, relief making me giddy. “Yes, you did.”

For a handful of minutes we stood there, his arms warm and solid around me, each simply breathing in the scents of the other. Then Virgil chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” I demanded, fighting back a smile of my own.

“Oh, I was just remembering how the scriptures said there’d be something unusual about the Living One.” He released me, one hand caressing my hair back away from my ear. “I thought being a half-elf and a woman was it, but…” His amusement died at the expression on my face. “Miss Clarisse, please…I-I know it’s not something you’re proud of, and believe me, I…” he trailed off sadly. “I know all too well what it’s like, having a past you’re not proud of. But it doesn’t _matter_ to me if your non-human parent was an orc. You’re the Living One, and…” Virgil flushed. “You being half-orc…makes me feel that I’m not rising above my station so much. That it’s not so much of a sin to think about you, to _feel_ about you, the way I do.”

“Let’s find someplace quiet to sit and talk,” I suggested.

Virgil nodded jerkily and offered me his arm again. Demurely, I took it and let him lead me away. If his chest was thrown out and there was a hint of swagger to his gait, what of it? No doubt many young men walked that same way when they’d just confirmed the affections of their lady-friends. We came to the small, quiet park that had served us so well in the past, and with perfect civility he waited until I had seated myself on a bench before sitting next to me, hands nervous fists on his knees.

“My mother was a whore,” I said quietly, deliberately shocking him out of his spiral of self-doubt. “My father liked her so much that he killed her pimp and stole her away to his tribe. He treated her well – never hit her or let anyone else lay a hand on her, never raised his voice to her or called her names – and she was content to live in his tent and not set foot outside at all. When I was born, my mother named me Clarisse…but my father named me Vorak, and it was worth a beating if I answered to the wrong name. I could only be Clarisse – a human girl, Clarisse – when I was alone with my mother. All other times, I was expected to be Vorak the orc.”

“I see,” he murmured. “That’s why you use it in place of a surname. So, tell me about Vorak. What…” Virgil colored slightly. “What do orcish women _do_?”

I laughed and touched his hand. Like magic, it unfolded and twined around mine. “The same things orcish men do, for the most part. I learned to fight with knife and club, to shoot a bow, to defend myself from wild animals and take their meat…and to defend myself from wild _men_ who would take something else.”

He looked shocked. “Surely, no one tried to…”

“To force the issue?” I asked delicately. “Not as such, but orcish courting is much cruder than human custom and to human eyes, there is little difference. I was daughter of the chieftain, and my human intelligence meant that I was quite desirable even without that. Being grabbed and kissed is the orcish equivalent of being paid a compliment; a knee to the groin is a polite refusal.”

“Orcs take what they want,” Virgil murmured, the fingers of his other hand brushing against his lips as if remembering mine there. “You were…popular, then?”

“Too popular,” I said dryly. “Word spread to another tribe, this one with a half-orc of its own. He thought I would make him a good wife and left his tribe for mine. He killed my father and took over-”

“What?”

I squeezed his hand lightly. “Shhh. It’s the way things work. If he hadn’t, I might never have had a chance to leave. He killed my father, my mother killed herself rather than be thrown out, and I was offered a place as the new chieftain’s mate. I refused, and with little more than the clothes on my back I set out for the nearest human city to make a life for myself.”

“Your bravery makes me feel even more ashamed of myself, Miss Clarisse.”

Although he was trying to make light of the situation, I could tell it was hurting him deeply. “Virgil?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said sharply, then sighed and looked at me with pleading eyes. “I’m sorry, Miss Clarisse. I’m just not as strong as you are. When you get right down to it, I’m a sniveling little worm and you – half-orc and all – you’re still too good for me. Not that I’m foolish enough to argue with your decision,” he added hastily, voice climbing nearly an octave and hand gripping mine as though terrified I would let go. “You’ve made yourself _quite_ clear and I…I…” He took a deep breath. “I had a…sheltered…upbringing. The darker side of life had always fascinated me, but once I’d had a taste of it…I was terrified, but I-I couldn’t go back. There was nothing for me to return to.”

“Is that why you joined the Panarii?” I asked gently.

“Yes. Elder Joachim found me…gave me a chance, put my feet on another path.” He smiled weakly. “A good thing he did, because otherwise there might not have been anyone to help you out after that crash. N-Not that you couldn’t have taken that cloaked fellow,” he said, voice trembling at the memory of that fight. “It’s just that…well, I think following you around has been the only worthwhile thing I’ve done with my life – and I wouldn’t change that for the world! – but…”

“You regret the things that happened to you that put you on that path?”

“I don’t regret anything that happened to me,” he said darkly. “It’s no more than I deserve, and probably less. No…I regret the things that happened to…other people…because of me.”

“Because of you.” My mind pounced on those words. “Someone came to harm and you believe it was your fault, regardless of the fact that it was not your hand. You’re blaming yourself for someone else’s actions.”

For a long minute there was silence as Virgil stared at me in shock, mouth open. “But I…” he protested weakly. “They…”

I let my orcish side come to the fore. “My parents would still be alive had not word of me spread to that other tribe. Is it my fault they are dead? Should I scourge myself because another chose to act in that way?”

“O-Of course not,” he stammered. “But y-you didn’t…didn’t do something to…incite that other fellow…”

“You incited the man in the cloak by the shrine,” I pointed out. “Yet it was my hand alone that ended his life. Is it your fault that he died?”

“He was coming to kill you,” Vigil protested. “That was completely justified.”

“But was it _your fault_?”

He was silent a long time.

“You’ve given me a lot to think about, Miss Clarisse,” he said finally.

I laughed softly. “And we still haven’t talked about us. We’ve talked about me, and we’ve talked about you…”

“But we haven’t discussed _us_ ,” he finished. “You’re the one calling the shots, Miss Clarisse. What do you want to do?”

Demurely, I locked my hands together in my lap. “I want to do this properly,” I told him gently. “Seeing as I was so improper earlier.”

“No, no…that was my fault,” he soothed, taking my hand back. “I made the mistake of trying to make that decision for you. I’ll court you, then, as a gentleman to a lady.” He hesitated. “Ah…if I should make a mistake…you _will_ correct me, right? That is…if I’m moving too slowly, or being too distant…” Virgil looked away, coloring deeply. “My life is yours. _I_ am yours, at your command, to do with as you will.”

“Virgil, what are you trying to say?”

“I-I-I…you’re a _lady_ , Miss Clarisse, and you deserve all the flowery phrases and pretty baubles, and I’ll do my best to give them to you, but…but you’re also Vorak, a-and V-Vorak has made herself _quite_ clear, orcish courtship being what it is, you know, heh heh…” The nervous, awkward laugh died. “Yes. Well. Ah…what is the next step in orcish courtship if a kiss isn’t rejected?”

Now it was my turn to color; that _was_ the entirety of orcish courtship. “You are not…appalled by my breech of propriety?”

“Ah…quite the opposite, actually,” he muttered, embarrassed. “As Clarisse, of course, I will be courting you with all gentle respect…but as Vorak…well, you’ve claimed me, have you not?” Virgil looked at me with naked hope. “That being the case…I trust that if there is something Vorak wants from me…?”

My mouth formed an O, my thoughts whirling. “Orc or human,” I said sternly, “I have but one earthly shell, and my honor will remain intact until all the proprieties have been met.”

“Of course,” he said hurriedly, blushing even deeper. “I-I-I wouldn’t…that is, I …no, I agree.”

“Another thing,” I added, giving him a fierce look – an orcish look – and letting my voice become harsh. “I _have_ claimed you, and orcs are territorial. That Willow girl at Madam Lil’s will just have to do without your company from now on, do I make myself clear?”

“I-I-I…th-that is, you see…uh…” Virgil avoided my eyes and bit his lip, concentrating on collecting his thoughts. “Yes. Quite clear, Vorak, but…uh…”

“But what?” I demanded, forcing myself to put aside the thrill of being called my other name in the correct context.

“It…ah…it wasn’t Willow.” When I made no response, he glanced fearfully at me, almost groveling with his eyes. “It was Alice.”

Alice. The half-orc, the girl whose specialty was domination. My lips parted in a very orcish smile, and I no longer cared if he saw my too-sharp teeth. “One final thing. When you decide to avenge the person or persons who you feel suffered at the hands of others because of you, I will be fighting at your side.”

“But…” the protest died on his lips. “Yes, Vorak,” he said humbly. “I don’t think it’s right, asking you to fight my battles for me, but I’m not asking, am I?” Sheepishly, he smiled. “You’re telling, and it’s not my place to argue with the Living One.”

“Virgil,” I purred, “lean closer and let me reward you for your good and faithful service.”

Flustered and eager, he did so and when I kissed him, there was no hesitation before he kissed back.

 

* * *

 

 

“Did I use your names right, today?” Virgil asked fearfully as we returned to our room after a delightful dinner. “Clarisse when you’re being a lady, and Vorak when…” he trailed off, flushing.

“When I’m being…forceful?” Gently, I touched his cheek and felt my pulse race. “You did.” I felt my cheeks heat. “Thank you for that.”

“For what?” he asked as he drew me into his embrace, and I laid my head on his shoulder.

“For accepting both sides of me,” I whispered.

“Miss Clarisse…you still haven’t asked me about anything, even though you know I…” His arms tightened around me. “…know I kept things from you.”

Like why Damian Maug knew his name and face.

“I let you believe me half-elf,” I replied calmly. “When word got out that I’d come from an orc tribe…I was expelled, evicted, abandoned, and cast out. My entire life went up in flames, which is why I was on the _Zephyr_ …which also went up in flames,” I finished wryly. “I was afraid that if you knew…”

Virgil laughed nervously. “I’m still afraid that you won’t want anything to do with me, Miss Clarisse.”

In response, I nuzzled his shoulder, feeling very warm and content at being able to do so at last. A long, lazy time later, I became aware that he was calling my name. “Mmm?”

“I said, I think we should turn in for the night.” He gently held me at arm’s length while I blinked and tried to focus. “Are you able to change by yourself, Miss Clarisse?”

My mind cleared slightly as his cheeks darkened. “I…yes. I’ll stay out here.”

Looking highly amused, Virgil pulled my usual loose shirt and pants out of the chest of drawers and laid them on the bed before grabbing his nightshirt and retreating to the bathroom. Fuzzily, I stripped out of my dress and fumbled the shirt and pants on with fingers that felt thick and numb. Virgil came out of the bathroom to find me sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at nothing. Gently, he pulled me to my feet where I stood, swaying, until he turned me around. The bed with its covers pulled back looked more inviting than words could describe, and without a thought I crawled into it, asleep almost before the covers were laid back over me.

 

* * *

 

 

When I awoke, the sun was streaming in and I felt incredibly refreshed. Then I opened my eyes and saw Virgil watching me from the other bed, and yesterday’s events rushed back. Cheeks warm, feeling like the young girl I never got a chance to be, I smiled.

“Good morning, Miss Clarisse,” he said, smiling back at me.

“Good morning, Virgil. I guess we should find breakfast and discuss our visit to P. Schuyler and Sons.”

“I suppose it will be like our visit to Damian Maug,” he teased, “only without the beheading.”

Lazily, I rolled onto my back and stretched. “That was the general idea I had, yes.” I stared at the ceiling for a moment, my joy marred by a shard of fear. “Virgil?”

“Yes, Miss Clarisse?”

“Did you really mean that, yesterday?”

Footsteps circled around the beds. “Which part,” he asked dryly, “the part where I made a fool of myself trying to be a gentleman about being a hooligan, the part where I made a fool of myself trying to confess my love, or the part where I’m a fool who’s still afraid to tell you my damning past when you’ve already shared yours?”

I sat up and frowned fiercely at him. “I know you, Virgil,” I snapped. “I may not know your past, but I know the shape of your soul as defined by your words and deeds, even under duress. You cannot have done anything so bad that I would forsake you. When you are ready to make peace with those ghosts and share them with me, I trust you to do so. I trust you,” I repeated more gently, the anger sputtering out. “You…you really love me? Orcish blood and all?”

Virgil flushed deeply. “I’m street trash pretending to be a gentleman, you’re an orc pretending to be a lady – and doing much better at it than me, in my opinion. To be honest, I think I was first attracted to you in Shrouded Hills.”

My eyebrows shot up. “That far back? What did I do?”

“You….uh…put a dagger to my throat.” Face beet red now, he looked away in embarrassment. “I told you the darker side of life fascinated me.”

“I became aware of my feelings towards you on our first day in Tarant,” I said quietly, “when I realized that as Vorak, I could never be happy being a gentleman’s pampered wife, but as Clarisse, I would be equally miserable in a relationship devoid of civilized discourse and wit. You proved yourself worthy in both respects before we even arrived in Shrouded Hills.”

That startled him out of his blush. “You mean…if I weren’t able to hold my own in a dark alley, you…”

“I would still feel affection for you, because you are a sweet, gentle, adorable man…but…” I let my lips part in an orcish smile. “You would not be a _worthy_ suitor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, the 'claiming Virgil' part of this chapter was actually the first - and only - thing I wrote for Clarisse Vorak back in 2011. It was like writing that scene was placing a bookmark in a book, a literary flag planted in my soul.
> 
> Extra bonus for double points: there's two moments in previous chapters where Virgil is...shall we say...taking care of things off-screen. 
> 
> I'm sure there's more commentary to be had for this chapter, but it's been two years since I wrote it and played the relevant bits of the game.


	8. P. Schuyler and Sons

“I think I’m the same way…sort of,” Virgil said over eggs and potatoes and tea. “I mean…all the girls that Mother insisted I be introduced to…they reminded me of silk roses. All of the beauty and sweet scent of the original, but none of the danger. They lacked a true rose’s thorns. But the women in the Underground were like the stem of a rose without the blossom. You’re the full flower, thorns and all, and I don’t think I could be satisfied with anything less.” He glanced at me, cheeks pink, and busied himself with his tea.

My cheeks, too, were pink. To be compared to a rose was nothing new, but to be appreciated for having thorns…

“I am grateful that the lady is not expected to return compliments in kind,” I replied demurely, “because I don’t think I could come up with anything so elegant right now.”

“You don’t have to say a word,” Virgil said softly. “Your presence is compliment enough.”

Tongue-tied, I reached for Virgil’s hand. He took mine in his and brought it to his lips, eyes shining with devotion, and my ears burned with the intensity of my blush.

When we had finished breakfast we strolled down Devonshire, Virgil leading the way because I didn’t quite remember where that little alley was. Outside of P. Schuyler and Sons, we stopped to prepare, and Virgil laughed. When I looked inquisitively at him, he shook his head, grinning broadly.

“I’ve just realized,” he said, chuckling, “that we spent weeks and weeks each holding our feelings in out of the belief that the other would never return them.”

“It would have made our stay at the Bentley more tolerable,” I agreed. “I’m not sure I would have been so inclined to leave, however.”

Virgil’s humor faded. “You’re right. I think the way we did things was better.” The grin returned, igniting one from me as well. “We’ll just have to make up for lost time.”

I removed the lid from the vial of altered absinthe and dropped it on the ground. “Are you ready?”

“After you,” he said, pulling the door open for me.

“Good morning, madam,” James Kingsford said, smiling broadly. “How can I help-”

As I had with Maug, I’d darted forward and jerked his head back. The vial poured into his mouth; reflexively, he swallowed. Moments later, his eyes went glassy and I released his hair.

“Where are the Schuylers?”

“The back room,” he said vaguely.

“Show me.”

James Kingsford unlocked the back room and led the way to a trap door in the far corner.

“You are convinced that it is imperative I speak with them regarding business matters. They have given you express permission to show this to me. Nothing about our visit is out of the ordinary, nor do you remember our faces.”

“Of course, madam,” he answered before wandering back out to the front room.

I looked at Virgil. “Are you ready for _this_?”

“I don’t see how I can be, but what choice have we got?” He lifted the trap door by its ring. “Uh…perhaps this time, I should go first.”

A surprised laugh bubbled up out of me. “After you, Virgil.”

The ladder led down into a well-excavated catacombs, with empty graves and coffins everywhere. A bit of searching led to another trap door and another ladder, leading down to another level of the catacomb. There were footprints in the dust, and we followed them down to a third trapdoor and a third level, this one populated by the moving corpses of long-dead dwarves. Terrified, we froze – but the zombies ignored us. One step at a time, we tentatively crept into the enormous workroom that had been set up in what must have been an ancient dwarven burial ground.

“Look at these dwarves,” Virgil muttered as we made our way through. “Even for the undead they look a bit odd, misshapen or something. And the stonework in this tomb is atrocious! I'm not one to profane the dead, but…”

“They do look strange…what’s so funny?” I asked my companion, who had started snickering.

“Oh, it’s just that…you remember the city-dwarf I mentioned skulking around? He thinks the Schuylers are robbing the tombs of his long-lost clan.” Virgil pointed to a dwarven zombie whose eyes were so close together in its malformed head that its face looked squished. “I’d never claim _these_ freaks as my long-lost people.”

The misshapen undead paid us no heed as we traversed the spacious gallery, absorbed as they were by their work: cleaning and sorting jewelry, or removing it from their inanimate brethren. As we neared the far end, a worn strip of red carpet appeared to beckon us tiredly on. The stonework of the arched doorway was better than what we'd seen so far, but clearly had been corrected at some point after its initial construction. Virgil glanced at me as we paused before that arch, silently asking confirmation of my intent to proceed, and at my nod he stepped through.

We had undoubtedly found the den of the necromancer. Although doors led off to either side, the worn red carpet proceeded straight down the middle of what might have once been a grand hall. Now, it was furnished with opulent, but stately, taste. Chairs and tables clustered near the walls, enchanted candles glowed from ornate brass stands, and at the far end a figure sat slumped in what seemed to be a throne - or a very thronelike chair.

"That must be P. Schuyler," whispered Virgil, and I nodded.

Carefully, I balanced Clarisse's eloquence against Vorak's bold nature. When I was quite certain that I would be able to demand answers and get them, I smoothed my skirts and marched down that waiting red path. Once, I lamented in brief silence that I hadn't thought to take another vial of altered absinthe, but soothed myself by remembering that such an accomplished gentleman would surely have a magickal aura far too powerful for my simple chemical mixture to befuddle. As I drew nearer, something about the posture of the reclining figure nagged at me but the flickering candlelight frustrated my attempts to see him clearly enough to identify the obscure anomaly.

Some ten feet away, I stopped abruptly. Although I still could not see the figure clearly through the unsteady light, I was certain that no breath stirred in his chest and his blood, if he still possessed any, sat still and cold within his veins. As if to underscore this revelation, a trio of robed figures hurried out of a nearby room and arranged themselves before the dead man as though defending him from myself and my companion.

“Who are you,” the center, and foremost, one demanded, “to trespass in the halls of our business establishment?” To either side, the other two could be faintly heard chanting under their breath, the wide sleeves of their robes easily concealing whatever arcane gestures might have accompanied the nearly-inaudible words. “Identify yourself immediately,” the leader – for I could see that his robes were more ornate than those of his fellows – commanded imperiously.

Behind me, Virgil stood tense, no doubt feeling quite vulnerable. I took a steadying breath and smiled, dipping the three robed figures a curtsey. “Forgive the intrusion, but I’m in dire need of some information,” I began.

The leader interrupted me. “Information? You’ve violated our home and our business out of the need for some information? That’s utterly preposterous!”

He had a point; were I not aware of the events that had brought me here, I would think myself quite mad. Still, I brandished another smile and dared flutter my eyelashes once or twice. “I can assure you that it’s of the utmost importance,” I fairly simpered.

“I’ll be the judge of what’s important in my own home!” Clearly, charm was getting me nowhere. The other two were still chanting, low and ominous. “What could you possibly need to know that justifies this outrage?”

“I need to find out the identity of one of your clients,” I said crisply, abandoning the feminine wiles that had failed me.

Beneath his cowl, the central figure scowled. “Impossible! Even if you were here on legitimate business, we at P. Schuyler and Sons would never betray the confidentiality of our clients!” He sounded surprisingly upset, as if I had impugned his honor. “To even _think_ such a thing…” There he trailed off, huffing.

Gentle persuasion had failed me. Neutral directness had failed me. I released the grip with which I was holding my orcish side, just a little, and allowed myself to be more Vorak than Clarisse. “Listen,” I said brassily, “I’m not here to make trouble, but I _have_ seen a lot.”

“Yeesss,” the man drawled, noticing perhaps for the first time that the shambling dwarven workers had not distressed me. “You have, haven’t you? You’ve got me in quite a predicament.” No doubt he realized that a lady determined enough to seek her information in a den of necromancy, having bested his living servant, would not be someone easy to dispose of. “I suppose there’s something to be said for making the best out of a bad situation,” he continued in a less hostile tone, “and you _are_ persistent, I’ll give you that.”

Having gotten somewhere at last, I tightened my control once again. “I would appreciate any knowledge you have pertaining to a ring,” I said calmly, holding it up but not presenting it for inspection.

“A ring?” He seemed taken aback, but something flickered in his eyes. “Why would you think I would know about such a thing? We’ve sold thousands of rings. What would distinguish this one from the others?”

 _He knows something,_ whispered the same instinct that had identified the corpse on the throne. His eyes narrowed slightly, and in that moment we stood alone, facing each other across the blades of our wits and our will. “Please, sir.” The words rang like steel, echoed off the stone walls. “Just take a look.”

I held the ring out for inspection. Reluctantly, he leaned forward and tore his eyes away from mine for no longer than a breath before straightening again.

“Ah, yes. I see…a signet ring. And these letters G. B. – more than likely they belong to the individual who purchased the ring from us.”

He wasn’t going to let the information go without a fight. Fortunately, I was willing to give him one. “I guessed as much,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Could you tell me the identity of the owner?”

He could, but he wouldn’t; not unless he had to. I could see that much even before he gave me an oily smile and spread his hands in a blatantly false expression of helplessness. “Well,” he said with dark satisfaction, “it seems we are at a crossroads, my friend. We, the Schuyler family, have been in business for more than four hundred years. Never once in all that time have we betrayed the trust of a customer. And yet here you are, and so much you’ve seen!”

Suddenly, I realized that he thought me a rival. I forced my orcish side back and blinked in wide-eyed human curiosity. “But exactly _what_ have I seen? What is going on down here?”

Just like that, the hostility evaporated into the sudden silence. The other two had ceased their chanting. “I suppose it does no harm in telling you, now. I am Winston Schuyler,” he introduced himself with distant courtesy, “and these are my brothers: Edward and Niles. The Schuyler name is an old name, one of the oldest families in all of Arcanum. We’ve traced our bloodlines back to the Age of Legends and further.” His voice now held a note of pride, and I allowed my features to reflect a moderate amount of genuine awe at the boast. “And always, from the beginning, we have practiced the darker arts…” Winston trailed off, watching for my reaction.

“What exactly do you mean by _the darker arts_?” I asked, as if I were completely unaware of what I’d witnessed on the way in.

“Necromancy, my curious friend!” Now that we were on the subject of his life’s work, he seemed to be warming up and his voice lovingly caressed every word. “Conjurings of the spirits, phantasmal speaking, the animation of the incurably dead. The Schuylers are a family who spend their time in the twilight lands, cowled in death and shadow…”

Niles and Edward looked equally enraptured. For a moment, human sensibilities nearly made me recoil. How could they think that animating the dead was anything to take pride in? But then I remembered Virgil’s horror at certain aspects of orcish life that I not only took for granted, but saw as completely natural. This was their custom; it was not my place to pass judgment on it, especially not when a few kind words might win me the information we needed.

“I see,” I said brightly. “That explains the dwarf zombies. They’re your work.”

Winston smiled at me. “Yes. It’s not as cruel as you might think – these bodies are long past usefulness to anyone. They are spiritless and good for digging, and with the bounty we’ve discovered here in this dwarven tomb, they are extremely useful.”

I leaned forward just a little, as if I were becoming enraptured. Gently, gently, one word at a time, I would lure my prey into coming within my reach. “And you built your store over this dwarven tomb?”

“Yes,” Winston said with another note of pride. “We discovered the tomb more than one hundred fifty years ago, before Tarant had become such a great city. And so our family left their home in old Caladon, and moved here. We weren’t sad to leave there,” he added thoughtfully. “Some of the locals had begun to become suspicious of our activities.”

Behind me, Virgil made a muffled sound, and I resolved to ask him later what comment he was biting manfully back. For the moment, I smiled at the Schuylers as if sharing a joke. “No offense, but I can see why they might be a little leery.”

Niles smiled briefly back at me.

“Sadly,” sighed the eldest of the three, “I can see your point. The world, for ones such as we, is becoming smaller. So few people remember the old ways, when magick was a part of everything and everyone. There was a time when we were legitimate businessmen, and no one blinked an eye at our operations…” Nostalgia stole the words from Winston, leaving him staring like a man daydreaming of his lover.

I cleared my throat gently. “It seems, as you said, we are at the crossroads. Where to go?”

My words brought Winston back to the matter at hand, but now he held more respect for me than he had before. “Yes, where?” he mused. “I seem to have something you need, and you hold something of ours as well – our anonymity. We are hurting no one here; the spirits of these dwarves are long gone, and we own the land upon which this tomb rests.”

Apparently, this was more than Virgil could bear because he blurted out, “Don’t you think that the dwarves might consider this heinous?”

Winston blinked, as if this had never occurred to him. “This tomb is from a clan long forgotten,” he protested mildly. “The very fact that it lies here in the lowlands, and not the mountains, says that they were more than likely considered a lesser dwarven people. In fact, it’s a strong possibility they were outcasts. You know a dwarf’s true home is _always_ in the hand-carved caverns of mountain stone.”

“Well,” I interjected firmly, “I’m convinced.” Virgil subsided, and I continued. “Maybe we can come to an agreement?”

“Yes, I think that might just be possible,” Winston said with surprised respect. “If you agree to tell no one about our business operations, I will find out for you who owns this ring. Are we agreed?”

“Agreed,” I said with a nod.

“Agreed,” echoed my protector with less reluctance than I expected.

Winston clapped his hands together once while his brothers looked relieved. “Very good! Now for your information. Our records down here are very extensive, but it might take hours to find what we’re looking for. I,” he said conspiratorially, “have a better way. We shall ask my father, Pelonious Schuyler.”

He was looking to show off, I realized, and it would cost me nothing to play along. “Your father?” I made a show of glancing around, as if I had not noticed the corpse. “And where is he?”

“Well,” the eldest brother said smugly, rubbing his hands together while the other two retreated a few steps, “he is here and not here. As you can see, we’ve preserved his earthly shell down here. That’s his body sitting in his favorite chair just behind me.”

I hummed for a moment, allowing myself to sound baffled. “I’m at a loss…is this a standard necromantic practice?”

The younger brothers chuckled.

“Not really,” admitted Winston, “but in his will, my father insisted that we..uhh…exhibit him just so. He was always very protective of the business, and this was his way of reminding us of the Schuyler standards.”

“No offense,” Virgil interjected with more delicacy that I would have thought, “but just how talkative is a…uh…rotting corpse?”

I winced internally, but the brothers took the question in stride, seemingly seeing an opportunity for education. “Except in the case of re-animation, the necromancer deals rarely with the flesh...it's the spirits of the dead we converse with,” explained Edward, or perhaps Niles.

The other one nodded. “This shell acts only as a medium for our impending conversation. Our father has as little to do with this body as your spirit does with the clothes you currently wear. Do you understand?”

Virgil nodded. “Of course. It’s a bit unnerving, but I think I’ll manage.”

“Very well,” Winston said, looking pleased to have seen my companion come around that much. “We shall proceed. I now call to the other side,” he intoned, while the other two took up their forgotten chanting, “to the place of shades and shadows…we call upon you, spirit of Pelonious Schuyler, who walks now where we can only look. Do you hear us?”

A shimmering shape rose from the stone floor and clung to the body as if anchored. Respectfully, Winston retreated to one side while Virgil stood stock still, visibly shaken. I stepped forward and curtseyed to the ghost, if that’s what it was.

“Ahhh…who calls upon me?” It was as if wind had been given voice, something felt in the soul but not heard by the ear. “Tireless are the souls of the dead, but how it seems to wear upon me to cross that river. Winston I see…and another…yes,” the spirit wailed in heavy resignation, “I suppose I knew this day would come. Welcome, traveler…”

“I’m sorry,” I said aloud, uncertain what the proper method of discourse with a returned spirit was. “I don’t believe we’ve met, sir.”

“No, I suppose over there we have not.” Those soundless words relieved me; I had not been certain he would hear my voice. “Forgive me, my sight is not as your own, nor is my time...with these eyes I see the candle burning at both ends...this moment for me has happened a thousand times, and none...no matter. Why have you come?” the spirit asked. “What is it you seek?”

“Forgive me, but it sounds like you might already know that.” I hoped he would sense, if not hear, the gentle humor in my statement.

“And you'll have to forgive me...my words are perhaps a bit misleading.” The spectral voice sounded tolerantly amused, if such a thing can be said for a voice unheard. “I do see both ends of the candle burning, but I also see all of the candles. Does that make sense, traveler? I cannot see what's in your heart, only what might be, and all of those endless possibilities. Some end in hope, others in despair, and some with you here among the spirits.”

That was significantly less than reassuring. I hoped fiercely that this description was a generality for a spirit called back to the world and not something specific to this meeting. “I see. Well,” I said bravely, “today I’ve come seeking the owner of a ring.”

“Yes, I know, a signet ring that we had made for a very important person. Important to us,” wailed the ethereal voice, “but more important to _you_. I remember very clearly the making of this ring...the spirits called to us across the darkness as it was forged. They knew, somehow, all that would come in its making...”

I had been less than reassured before, but those words set every hair on my body standing upright, prickling with more than simple unease down the lengths of my arms and legs and crawling up my spine. “What are you talking about?” I asked, more than a little shaken.

“Not so simple, traveler.” The spectral voice held a note of warning, now. “Nary a candle for those words...they're not mine to say. I come only as the first of many messengers...some from this side and some from yours. Be wary of them all. The river which separates us eddies around you, creating new flows. Navigate wisely...”

It was not simply the manner of a spirit crossed back to the land of the living; this was something peculiar to me. Was it because I was the Living One, as Virgil believed? “You’re speaking in riddles. I beg you, be more clear.”

“Very well,” Pelonious howled silently. “The ring. The man you seek is Gilbert Bates. There is nothing else I can tell you, and the dead call me back. Traveler…I must return. Fare thee well…”

“Thank you, Pelonious,” I said hollowly, feeling uncertainty and despair settle into my stomach.

The shimmering form sank back into the floor. Numbly, I thanked Winston and his brothers, and allowed Virgil to lead me back through the catacombs and the unassuming jewelry shop and out into the late-morning sunlight where I began shivering. He held me close, concerned, and I forced myself to breathe in the scent of him, to ground myself in his warmth and find my center.

“So,” Virgil asked when I’d regained my composure, “who owned the ring?”

I frowned at him. “Weren’t you listening?”

“To what?” He spread his hands helplessly. “I didn’t hear a thing the spirit said, only what you said to him.”

Although the sun was warm, I felt a chill slide down my spine. “Gilbert Bates,” I said, ignoring the rest of the spirit’s message for the time being. We already knew that I was tangled in a web of happenstance and destiny; there was no need to belabor the point. “The ring belonged to Gilbert Bates.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a non-game world, the Schuylers would never have left hostile but unarmed zombies in their catacombs, so I removed them. Maybe they would have left the treasure chests, but Clarisse and Virgil are well enough off that they don't need to scrounge for baubles to sell and even if they weren't, they need information too badly to risk alienating the proprietors. I also added more comfortable living quarters since game buildings typically lack such things as a rule. 
> 
> I had two ranks of persuasion for this dialogue, but I don't know if they were absolutely necessary. Clarisse honestly doesn't care what the Schuylers have or have not done, so long as she gets the information she was looking for. The bits that seemed out of tune with the rest of the conversation, therefore, I ascribed to Virgil. Game-wise, it's awkward to have a dialogue with more than to participants, but in real life you know he, Niles, and Edward wouldn't have just stood there in silence while Clarisse and Winston did all the talking. The comment Virgil was biting back likely was him connecting dots on something, since he did live in Caladon for a good portion of his life.
> 
> You'd be freaked out, too, if you learned that you were the protagonist in the sort of thing legends were made of.


End file.
